Masquerade
by Tikatu
Summary: Jeff Tracy struggles to safeguard the secrets of IR, even as he searches for those who threaten to reveal them. Sequel to Serendipity. TV-verse.
1. A Tale of Two Cats

_Author's Note:_ This is the sequel to _Serendipity_ and starts just a few days after the Epilogue of that fic. _**I recommend you read **Serendipity **before you start **Masquerade **as there are incidents from there which will not be elaborated upon here.**_I hope you will find this fiction as enjoyable and full of twists as was its predecessor. My thanks to Hobbeth for her insight on the behavior of tigers, and for her betareading skills.

Now to acknowledge those who reviewed the Epilogue of _Serendipity_.

**killhill2003:** I'm glad you enjoyed the story. As you can see, here is the sequel and yes, the boys will get out on some more missions.

**Math Girl:** Good to know that _somebody_ got that joke! The security improvements and technology are beginning to arrive already as you'll see in this chapter.

**Claudette:** Yes, Lou Myles (or Cindy Lou as she is calling herself now) is intact and in touch with Jeff. As for her cats giving away her presence, she has a way of dealing with that as you may eventually see. Thanks for the good words on the new technology; you'll see some of it in action in this chapter. Thanks also for your compliment on the way the friendship between Lou and Jeff was handled; I intend to continue to go very slowly with these two, just as if they were real people.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own them, I'm just writing about them. Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats, are mine. Especially the cats. See my bio for information on copying/hotlinking.

Enjoy. And Blessed Easter.

Tikatu

_**

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**Masquerade:** To go about as if in disguise; to have or put on a deceptive appearance; to pretend to be someone or something you are not.

* * *

Fifteen-year-old Ryan Pierce was on his way home from school when he saw the lady calling out to the white cat who was perched in the lowest branch of a giant, ancient oak. She had moved into the old Bartlett place a few days ago. He noticed that her arm was in a sling. _She won't get that cat down, not without bringing out the fire department or something, _he thought as he loped by. 

Suddenly he heard her calling, "Young man? Young man! Could yew please come heah foah a minute?"

He groaned internally and for a fleeting moment thought he might just ignore her and keep on going. But he caught a movement in the house across the street from the newcomer's place. _Damn. Ol' Mrs. Hickerson. If I don't help, she'll call Grandma, or tell her over the table at bridge night... then I'll catch it hot. _He sighed, turned around, and sauntered back to the woman.

"You calling me?" he asked in his most bored and antagonistic tone as he slouched there before her.

The woman smiled sweetly and answered in a thick Southern drawl. "Why yes, Ah was." She held out her left hand to shake his. "Mah name is Kellay. Cindy Lou Kellay."

He hesitated; he'd always been taught to shake with his right hand. But since she had an arm in a sling... he took her hand and shook it twice. "I'm Ryan."

She motioned to the cat with her free hand. "As yew kin see, Rahy'n, Ah've got a touch o' trouble heah. Mah precious Snowball was treed bah a loose pup. She's not used t' bein' outside; she's a house cat. Would you be so kind as to climb up an' fetch her foah me? Ah have a ladduh in th' garage."

Ryan took a good look at the new woman on the block. She was slightly above average in height, but not tall, and she had a trim figure under the blue jeans and sweater that she wore. She had dark red hair done in tight curls, and a well-made up face with a beauty mark on one cheek. Her blue eyes looked sincere, but the teen noticed that the heavy powder and foundation were covering some bruises. He'd seen enough of his friends' mothers after their fathers or boyfriends had gone off on them and smacked them around, and he wondered if this lady were involved with someone similar. There wasn't any cast on the arm in the sling. _She's lucky, _Ryan thought. He looked her up and down again, and asked, "How much?"

She blinked. "Ah beg yoah pahdon?"

"How much? How much will you pay me?"

It was obvious that the woman hadn't thought about remuneration. "Well... " she began. "Would ten dollars be enough?"

Ryan thought it over a little._ Better not let her think I'm eager for the job... which I'm not. _He sighed again, expelling air through his nose. He saw the curtain move again in Mrs. Hickerson's place and knew he'd better not press his luck. "I suppose that ten would cover it." He dropped his school backpack near the base of the tree. "Where's the ladder again?"

"In th' garage. Lemme open it up foah yew." She walked smartly over to her house and stepped inside. Ryan wasn't sure what she was doing, but after a moment, he glanced down the drive so see the garage door open on its own. She came out, smiled at him, then escorted him to the open structure. He looked around as he entered the building, noticing a lot of unopened boxes still stacked in half of the area. A light beige mini-van sat in the other half.

"Ah'm sorry about th' mess," she apologized, sounding embarrassed. "Ah'm still movin' in."

He shrugged noncommittally. "S'okay." The stepladder was hung from the rafters of the garage, and Ryan, tall and lanky as he was, had no trouble removing it and carrying it out to the tree. He leaned it up against the trunk, noticing that there were still two feet between the top of the ladder and the branch where the cat cowered, meowing at the woman. He took a deep breath, and slowly climbed up. When he got up as far as he could, he turned to ask, "What's the cat's name again?"

"Her name is Snowball," was the reply.

Ryan nodded to himself, and reached out for the cat, calling softly, "Here, Snowball. Come to me, kitty. Come on." He reached out, but Snowball shied away and he muttered, "Come on, you stupid cat. I'm trying to save you here." Finally he managed to grab her with one hand as he held on to the ladder with the other. Tucking her between his arm and his side, he descended carefully. Near the bottom of the ladder, she wrenched herself from his grasp and leapt down. Her first order of business was to dig a little hole in the surrounding leaf litter and squat to do her business.

"Oh, thank yew _evah_ so much, Rahy'n," the woman gushed. She waited until the cat had covered over the hole, then she darted out and grabbed Snowball under the chest, pulling her close with her one arm. "If yew'll put away th' ladduh foah me an' step up t' th' doah, Ah'll get yoah money."

He carried the ladder back to the garage, and put it away in its place. He felt sorry for the lady and decided that he'd better not just leave it on the floor of the garage. _If Mrs. Hickerson got wind of it... _Finished with his task, he walked down the drive towards the front of the house. As he did, he heard a soft whirring sound behind him, and turned around to see the overhanging door quietly closing on its own. He shrugged again, took a slight detour to grab his pack, then climbed the short set of stairs to the front door. It was wooden, stained to a dark color and with a window made of eight rectangular panes of beveled glass, arranged in two rows of four. The brass knocker on the door was engraved with the name, "Kelly". _Well, now I know what her name really is. It was hard to recognize it under her accent. _He raised his hand to knock but found the portal already opening and Ms. Kelly standing there, a smile still plastered on her face.

She held out a crisp, clean ten dollar bill. "Heah yew go, Rahy'n. Agin, thank yew_ evah _so much foah givin' me a hand t'day," she said cheerfully.

He shrugged his skinny shoulders again. "You're welcome, Ms. Kelly." He tucked the bill into his jeans pocket and turned to go. Then he stopped and looked over his shoulder as some vestiges of his grandmother's training in manners surfaced. "It was, uh... it was nice to meet you, ma'am."

Her smile grew wider. "An' t' meet yew, Rahy'n. Y'all have a good day now. G'bye!" And with that, she closed the door.

Ryan jogged down the steps and resumed his journey home from school, backpack slung over one shoulder, hands in his pockets, and whistling a bit as he thought of having escaped his grandmother's wrath... and coming home with a new bit of neighborhood gossip to give her as well.

xxxx

"Thunderbird Two from Mobile Control," Scott called into his microphone. "The fourth car is ready for lifting."

"Is that the one with the elephants in it?" Virgil asked.

"Yes. There are two elephants in there. The circus vets have checked them over and they've only sustained minor injuries. They've been sedated enough to calm them so moving the car won't be a problem."

_Says you, _Virgil thought, rolling his eyes. But he replied, "F-A-B. Moving to car four now." Tapping his new hands-free communicator once, he inquired, "How's it going back there, Go... I mean, Omicron?"

"Ready for another one, Delta," Gordon replied smartly from his position by the heavy-duty winch in the bottom of pod three. He had just finished pulling the winch back up from moving one of the train's heavy boxcars. They had been called to a rather unusual rescue; a circus train had derailed on one of the old freight lines in a stretch of forest between Vilnius, Lithuania and Minsk, Belarus. The local rescue crews were ill-equipped to handle the huge freight cars and the equally huge or dangerous animals that they contained. So a call had gone out to International Rescue. Jeff had balked at the idea at first, but since there were injured people involved as well, he finally gave the go-ahead and the Thunderbirds launched.

Coming on the scene, Scott originally thought that perhaps John should be the man at Mobile Control because of his facility with Russian. But John reminded him that a fluent speaker would be needed to communicate with the roustabouts, who were less likely to speak English, and Alan could always translate for Scott with either his own admittedly shaky command of Russian or by using the translation software in Thunderbird Five. Fortunately, two of the ringmasters knew English well enough that communication was smooth for the most part. Scott did use the multi-directional microphone at Mobile Control to catch bits and pieces of conversation going on around him.

The injured people were few in number, and the oxyhydnite cutters got to them quickly. Medical helijets from Minsk took time to get there but they were able to ferry the worst of the injured to the city. All but three of the cars and the engine had merely jumped the tracks, and a couple of them were leaning on cars that had fallen over as well. The three cars that were totally smashed were near the end of the train and held equipment. Most of the circus veterinarians were still able bodied, as were the majority of the roustabouts. The decision was made to get as much of the train as possible back on the track, and a new engine would come out from the city to tow the circus to its destination.

"Right, right two degrees," John called from the top of the fourth boxcar. Virgil made the minute correction as Gordon played out the cable, watching via the mobile camera, which Scott had deployed from Thunderbird One. He, Gordon and Virgil all had monitors linked to the camera this time, a small innovation contributed by Alan who had reconfigured the signal for multiple users in the wake of their adventure in New Brunswick. John had tweaked it since then so that the signal was tight beam and would not be picked up by nearby televids. And Brains had added a gizmo that made the device proof against the photo detector and fogger mechanisms.

"A little more to the right, Thunderbird Two," John instructed. "Now down two meters, nice and easy, one meter, there! You've got it! Lock it in!"

Gordon moved a lever, and below him, John could hear a muffled "thunk" as the electromagnets on the huge winch locked onto the metal sides of the elephants' car. He climbed off the car, and gave the okay to pull up. With almost agonizing slowness, the cable took up the slack as both the winch and the mighty engines of Thunderbird Two pulled the car upward. Once the car's wheels were roughly a meter off the ground, half a dozen hefty roustabouts attached hooks and cables to the undercarriage and, with John's verbal instructions, helped Virgil position the car over the tracks. Another call topside, and Gordon played the cable out once again, lowering the carriage slowly down again. It touched the tracks with all eight wheels at once, and rocked gently on its shock absorbers for a few moments as the roustabouts cheered, thumping John on the back before retrieving their gear. He'd gotten used to the men's calculated enthusiasm; even though they hadn't rattled him with their friendly "congratulatory" smacks, they still tried. John knew it was because of his relative thinness. He didn't have the same bulging muscles as they did, though he was every bit as strong. Even so, he was sure he'd have some new bruises to add to his collection from the mudslide rescue.

Scott noticed one of the men who had been identified as a trainer come running up to the ringmaster with a vet close behind. The trainer gesticulated wildly and shouted at the ringmaster, his face pale and full of fear.

"Mobile Control from Thunderbird Five. You've got a problem," Alan said in his ear.

"How so?"

"If what I'm hearing is right, one of the more dangerous animals has gotten loose..."

At this point, the ringmaster in question approached Scott. "Mr. International Rescue, we have lost an animal. Our white tiger, Misha. She has a... how do you say it... a chip for tracking her, but our equipment is in one of the smashed cars. Could you... would you help us retrieve her?"

"Let me see what my commander says, first," Scott replied. He tapped his earpiece twice and called, "Base from Mobile Control, come in, base."

Jeff looked up from the latest reports from his agents in the world government capital. _How does a single man like Jim Franks disappear so thoroughly? _he groused. "Go ahead, Mobile Control."

"Base, we have a situation and a special request has been made," Scott explained. He outlined what had happened and gave Jeff the information that the ringmaster and the trainer were giving him.

"Hmm. I think this is one instance where we can extend ourselves to help capture the animal," Jeff replied. "Besides, there may be people endangered if the tiger goes near inhabited areas." He nodded at Scott. "Alpha, you have the go ahead. Get to it before the day gets much later."

"F-A-B, base," Scott responded. He glanced up at the hovering ringmaster and trainer. "We can do it." Another tap on his earpiece. "Mobile Control to Thunderbird Two. Set 'er down, Delta. I need a hoverbike, the tranquilizing guns, and Go... Omicron."

Twenty minutes later, Gordon stood before Mobile Control as Scott briefed him on his mission. "You'll take Gregor here," he indicated the trainer, "on the hoverbike. Thunderbird Five has the tracking signal frequency and will feed it to your GPS screen."

"The vets have calculated how much of our tranquilizing drug will be both safe and effective and I've filled the darts," Gordon explained. "I've got infrared goggles with me should it get dark before we find the cat."

"Good. The vet and a support crew will follow as soon as they get their AT truck out of the car that Thunderbird Two is working on right now," Scott told him. It had been decided that the tiger hunt couldn't be allowed to stop the progress they were making in getting the circus train back on track, especially since Alan had informed them that the new engine was on its way. So Virgil had switched the winch over to remote control, and John was to stay and continue with what he was doing. Both of them had expressed some dismay over Gordon going off without actual IR back up. "I knew we'd want Tin... I mean, Zeta, with us," Virgil had grumbled. "But she's got too much on her plate now with the new uniforms and visors." Scott merely rolled his eyes and shook his head.

He now looked up at Gordon, who had slung the tranquilizing rifle over his shoulder, and was putting on a motorcycle style helmet. Gregor had been issued a rifle as well, and was hefting it, testing its feel. One of the stunt flyers came up and gave the trainer a helmet of his own. Scott said, "Best get going, Omicron."

Gordon gave him a smart salute. "F-A-B." He beckoned to Gregor, who mounted the hoverbike behind him and they took off into the surrounding forest.

Scott watched them go, then turned his attention back to the rescue at hand.

xxxx

Back at base, the vidphone at Jeff's desk rang. He glanced at it, checking the caller ID. There were very few people who had his private number and most of them were part of Tracy Industries. When there was a rescue, he would let his voice mail answer the phone and return the call later, unless there was an emergency within his company that required immediate attention. This caller, however, made him smile slightly and when the instrument rang again, he muted the talkback between his sons, and switched on the vidphone, choosing "voice only".

"Jeff Tracy," he said, keeping half an ear on the background conversation.

"Well, hello theah," the blatantly Southern-accented female said. He could hear the smile in her voice as she spoke.

"Hello there yourself, Lou," he replied, with a grin. Then a tone of regret crept into his voice. "I'm afraid I can't talk now. I'm busy." He laid a small bit of stress on the last word.

His caller picked up on it. "With th' fam'ly bizness?" she asked.

" 'Fraid so."

"Then Ah won' keep yew. Tell th' boys thet Cindy Lou says hello, will yew?"

"I will. And I'll call back later."

"Ah look for'ard to it. G'bye." And the call ended.

Jeff sighed, then made a note in his scheduler to remind him to call when the rescue was all said and done.

xxxx

_I am so glad that Belarus has mostly flat terrain. Wish I'd brought a machete though,_ Gordon thought as he and Gregor hummed along about a third of a meter above the damp leaf litter and occasional carpet of pine needles that made up the floor of the forest. Branches often blocked their way, especially in the coniferous portions of the woods where skinny dead limbs crisscrossed each other, making passage difficult.

Gregor wasn't much of a talker, for which Gordon was thankful. He wore his watch, the microphone of which could pick up the trainer's words and pipe them up to Alan, who could translate to the earpiece he wore. But he didn't know enough Russian, or whatever it was that Gregor spoke, to carry on a conversation. Besides, his helmet had a reflective visor that covered his face. He'd have to lift it or remove the helmet to talk and with the foliage the way it was, it was far too dangerous an option.

The small GPS screen kept him on the tiger's track, and now they came out of the forest and were skirting a small brook. The trees didn't grow too close to the edge, and in the few places where they did, Gordon took to the water. The creek was less than half a meter deep and full of stones, and so didn't pose the problem for the hoverbike that deeper, choppier waters might. If he could have seen Gregor's face, he would have smiled at the incredulous look the trainer gave as they glided above the brook's surface.

The bright green dot that they had been following was now stationary and they were drawing closer to it. The pine forest had given way again to deciduous trees, their long, bare branches reaching out over the water. Suddenly there was a slight movement ahead and Gordon looked up. Above them, perched on a thick, gnarled branch that hung over the water was the tiger, her white fur contrasting sharply with the darkened wood.

But before Gordon could slow down to take stock of the situation, the hoverbike had glided beneath the branch. Gregor pulled frantically on his arm, shouting something that the helmeted aquanaut could barely hear, much less understand. Then the back of their conveyance dipped sharply into the creek, accompanied by a splash. The contact with the water stalled the antigravity impellers and Gordon was unceremoniously dumped into the shallow stream as the hoverbike capsized. He rose up from the cold brook on his bruised and scraped hands and knees, lifting the visor of his helmet to sputter out both water and a curse. A shrill scream split the air and, startled, he turned over... to find himself staring across the darkening day into the gleaming yellow eyes of the white tiger.


	2. Of Tigers and Termites

_Author's Note: _The scene between Lou and Snowball in Chapter One is taken from a real life incident. Now you get to find out what happened to Gordon and Misha. My thanks to Hobbeth for her insight on the behavior of tigers, and for her betareading skills.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Math Girl:** Gordon as cat food? Well, here's your chance to find out. Thanks for the good words on the new equipment. It's not all available yet, including the uniforms, but it's coming and will be coming. Oh, and I'm so glad you noticed the parallel "white cat" rescues. Though the rescue of Misha is turning out to be a whole lot more complicated than the rescue of Snowball!

**pepsemaxke: **I'm glad you're enjoying this so far. I'll keep it coming.

**killhill2003:** I'm glad you didn't charge for your cat rescuing endeavors. Ryan, however, has his eye to the main chance. Since he didn't know her, it was more like she was hiring him to do a job. Maybe later he'll actually do Lou a favor.

**Bluegrass:** Sorry if the dialect is confusing. She's trying to sound Southern, and I'm trying to give the reader a taste of the Southern drawl through the words and how she pronounces them. Thanks for the good works on the setting and the rescue. The updated technology is still coming along as you'll see later.

**barb from utah:** Thanks for the compliments on Serendipity and on this fic. I agree white tigers are gorgeous, but as you see from my comments to Math Girl, I did have a slight ulterior motive. ;)

**FrankieC:** I think a _case_ of Whiskas might do it, don't you?

_Disclaimer: _I don't own them, I'm just writing about them. Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats, are mine. Especially the cats. See my bio for information on copying/hotlinking.

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

"Alan?' Gordon strove to keep his voice steady as he faced Misha. "Can you hear me? I have a problem..." 

"Uh, Omicron, you're supposed to use my code name..." Alan began.

"Dammit, _Alan_! I don't have time for code names!" his brother muttered savagely.

"Well, you don't have to get snarky about it," the space monitor huffed. "What's your problem, _Gordon_?"

"Oh, I'm just sitting on my hands in a cold creek with my hoverbike out of commission, staring at a white tiger," came the sarcastic reply.

"This is no time for joking, _Gordon_," Alan shot back.

There was a pause, then Gordon said in a very quiet and deadly voice, "Who said I was joking, _Alan_?"

"You're staring at a white... oh my God." Comprehension dawned pale on Alan's face, and he was glad that the new heads up visors weren't yet available. "I'll patch you through to Scott." He flipped a switch that put him in tricircuit contact with both Gordon and Scott at Mobile control. After a moment's thought, he patched in his father at base.

"Mobile Control and Base from Thunderbird Five, we have a code red. I repeat, we have a code red."

At base, Jeff's head snapped around to Alan's picture at his youngest son's words. The new situational code designations had been created by Jeff and Scott as they wrestled over the terminology that IR would need to mask its movements and operations. They were an offshoot of the code names suggested by Lou in her file on security issues. He got up slowly from his chair and turned the volume up on the talkback, ready to intervene if and when necessary.

"Mobile Control to Thunderbird Five," Scott called, his blood turning to ice when he heard the "code red" designation. It meant that an operative was in immediate, deadly danger. "What's happening... Lamda?"

Alan winced at his code name. They had all pulled the Greek letters out of a hat, with Eleanor pulling a name out for him. He had ended up with Lamda, which caused his brothers to snicker. "Omicron reports that his hoverbike is out of commission and he's staring the tiger in the face. I've patched you in on tricircuit. Base is also patched in."

"Damn!" Scott pressed a button on the Mobile Control unit and waved one of the ringmasters, named Georgio, over. "Omicron! Report!"

"We found the tiger on a branch over a stream. I was using the hoverbike on the water, and when we passed under the branch, something heavy hit the back of the bike and it dipped in the water. The impellers fouled and I was dumped. When the bike dipped, there was a splash, and when the bike dumped me, a scream. I don't see Gregor anywhere," Gordon's report, delivered in a soft, terse tone told both Jeff and Scott that he was trying hard to keep his fear under control.

Giorgio listened to the report and shouted something that Scott didn't understand to the knot of curious people who were gathering around Mobile Control. Immediately, some of the crowd went running off, calling the word "Margot!" as they took off in different directions. Georgio turned back to Scott. "They are looking for Misha's trainer. If she is here, she will help. Tell your Omicron that he must not turn his back on Misha."

"Omicron," Scott said, keeping his eyes on Georgio. "Whatever you do, don't turn your back on the tiger. Where's your trank rifle?"

"In the drink," Gordon replied succinctly. "Uh, she's staring back at me. What do I do?"

Just then, a tall woman, her dark hair pulled back in a long French braid, came running up with one of the roustabouts. "What is ze problem?" she asked, her accent nearly as thickly French as the novice the boys had met in Haiti.

Georgio outlined the problem to Margot, and Scott offered her the microphone. "You must distract my Misha," she said. "Take her focus from you. Zen move quickly, but do not turn your back to her."

"F-A-B," Gordon replied. His hand fished in the cold water for a palm-sized stone. Finding one, he counted quickly to three, and flung it up and beyond the tiger. Even in the twilight, he could see the beast startle as the stone splashed in the creek behind her. Her attention on him wavered, and like a shot, Gordon was on his feet and moving toward a sandy embankment, his face toward the tiger at all times. He cursed as he tripped over something soft lying on the sand, then stopped as he realized it was Gregor. The man was lying face down, moaning softly, and when the aquanaut bent to check on him, his hand came away wet with something warm and sticky.

"Mobile Control from Omicron," Gordon called softly. "I've found Gregor. He's barely conscious and bleeding from cuts on his back." He hoisted the senseless man up over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, then looked up to check on the tiger's whereabouts. "Uh-oh."

"Omicron from Mobile Control," Scott called sharply. "Status!"

"I can't see the tiger anymore."

xxxx

Jim Franks sat back in his computer chair and ran a hand through his blond hair. When he arrived at the private cay, he strutted off the helijet as if he owned it, only to find himself the target of a small squadron of private guards. He assessed the situation, his sharp blue eyes darting back and forth, probing for a weakness. He realized he was severely outnumbered, and that even using Señor Ramirez as a human shield and hostage wouldn't stop him from getting killed should he try to brazen it out. So he gave up his gun with a wry smile, and allowed himself to be frisked. He was hustled into the sprawling hacienda, shoved into a comfortable room, and locked in. The locking mechanism was sophisticated and Franks decided it would be too much work to try and pick it. _Besides, _he mused, _I'm sure to be under surveillance._

Several hours had passed before Señor Ramirez returned... with company: two big brutes, both conspicuously armed, and a tiny, wizened black man who carried a thick briefcase.

"So. When do I get to meet His Excellency?" Franks asked as he lounged indolently on the bed, hands behind his head.

"When you have verified the disk you brought," Ramirez said smoothly. "You were the one who said it should be done. Jorge here will set up a computer station for you. Your laptop will suffice as the interface."

"Be my guest," Franks replied, waving a hand toward the desk that sat in the room. Ramirez nodded at Jorge, who moved in and began to work. An hour later, the computer expert pulled out Liv's laptop and hooked it up to the station he had just created.

"You'll 'ave internet access," he said in a strong Jamaican accent. "I got passwords to some government sites... use 'em carefully. Virus filters are active. Got question? Call." He waved one hand sharply as he collected up his tools, never looking at Franks, or anyone. Having finished putting his tools back in place, he irritably pushed the bodyguards aside and left the room.

Franks sat up, having watched the old man work while lying down on the bed. "So, Ramirez. Has payment been made for fulfilling my part of the deal? I _did_ bring the disk."

Ramirez smiled, showing a gold incisor. "You brought us_ a _disk, Franks. Only when we are satisfied that this is _the_ disk will you get paid."

Franks returned the smile. "How will you know if it is? After all, I'm going to be the one verifying it."

The secretary sauntered over to the laptop and caressed its cover. "Because what Jorge forgot to mention is that there's been a little program added. A keystroke catcher that will keep track of every move you make and record it. So we can follow up with our own people."

"Clever. And it will give you access to the places I have access to as well," the mercenary observed, preparing to rise from the bed. "Win-win for you."

"And for you, should the disk prove to be genuine. There may be a permanent, ah, _position_ on His Excellency's staff available to you if all is as it should be."

"And if it isn't?"

Ramirez's face became impassive, and his eyes took on a calculating gleam. "That is still to be decided."

Franks put his hands on his thighs and pushed down as he stood. "Well, then. I have my work cut out for me, don't I? Can I get something to fortify myself while I travel through cyberspace?"

"Of course. I will have a meal sent up. Good luck, Mr. Franks. I feel you may need it." And with that, Ramirez left.

That was six days and several meals ago. He began with the two identikit sketches._ I'm sure that International Rescue, being the holier-than-thou organization that it is, isn't going to use convicts for their operation. Still, I'm sure that to fly those Thunderbirds, they've got to have some extraordinarily skilled pilots. That means the military. _He smiled to himself. _Looks like Jorge has the passwords I need. Time to run a search. We'll start with the World Air Force._

The search took a good eight hours, and came up with not one, but a dozen possibilities per picture. Franks frowned and shook his head. _I know identikit pictures are bad, but I didn't think they were **this** bad. Let's try another, national-level air corps and see what we get._

When his next four searches turned up the same sort of results, Franks sat back and scratched the back of his neck. _This can't be coincidence. I'm beginning to think that Lucinda did mess with the disk. I can't be sure though. I need to do a bit more searching. Maybe those fingerprints will be of more use._

So he began a search to identify the three fingerprints that he found on the disk. It took a long time to track them down at first; none of them were in the most obvious places that he could access. Finally, he was forced to use his last resort, hacking into the Interpol database itself. It was difficult; all of his passwords had been long ago disabled and would set off alarms should he try to use them. Instead, he tried to remember the names and backgrounds of some of his former fellow agents, then guess at what their passwords might be. It was a day and a half until he got lucky and got in. Immediately, he pulled up the first of the fingerprints and did a search. There was no match found. He shook his head. _If Lucinda faked this, she would have used what she had in her own files. And those should be here somewhere..._

The second print turned up a match, but Franks frowned. _This guy is dead! Not only that, he's been dead for three years! Lessee, did Lucinda work this case? I don't see... wait... no, she didn't. Or at least she's not listed as having done so. She could have compiled the notes though. Ah! Yes! There are her initials. You are one crafty old bitch, Luci. Let's see if the third fingerprint is here._

The third and final fingerprint turned out to be as difficult as the first, but it did match one in the data file. _No note that this guy is dead, but could he possibly be with IR? He just some old nobody geezer. I might have to run his name through the obituaries. Damn, but you've made this hard, Luce._

His search of the obituaries near the old man's home turned up nothing, so he had to extend his search until, at last, he found what he was looking for: a notice of the man's death and burial. Then he went back to pull up the file with the first fingerprint. He had downloaded it from the disk to the laptop's hard drive. He knew it was being accessed remotely by Ramirez's people as they followed him around; he had heard the drive's whisper-soft motion when he hadn't been doing anything with keyboard or mouse.

There was a warning beep as he tried to open the file. A moment later, an error message flashed on his screen: _File Not Found_. "What the hell?" he muttered as he tried to open the file again. And again, he got an error message. It was at this point that he sat back and ran a hand through his hair. He said aloud to no one in particular, "Ramirez? We've got a problem."

xxxx

"Keep looking around! Look up!" Margot called into the mike. "Do not let your guard down!"

"Easy to say, but not to do," Gordon muttered. "I still have to care for Gregor here. He's got some deep scratches on his back, mostly likely from Misha's claws." He scuttled sideways up the bank to a grassy area and gently laid Gregor down on one side. "I've got him up and out of the creek. Any ideas?"

Scott looked up at Giorgio. "Why did you tell me to send Gregor and not Margot? He is a trainer and has worked with Misha before, hasn't he?"

"Idiot Gregor!" Margot spat in French. "He is trainer, oui, mais des lions, pas des tigres! Il y a beaucoup des différences." She stopped and took a deep breath, then turned a rueful face to Scott. "Misha does not like him."

Giorgio spread his hands in apology. "There was no time to find Margot and he was here..."

Scott sighed. "What's done is done." He was about to speak into his microphone when Jeff's bass tones sounded out.

"Omicron from base. You have infrared goggles?"

"Uh, yes, Commander," Gordon reached into a pouch on his belt and extracted the goggles. He took off his helmet, laying it aside, and slid the goggles on over his head. "I have them on, Commander."

"Good. You'll be able to see the tiger clearly now." Jeff stopped to confer with Brains for a moment. "Fetch your hoverbike and see if you can get it working. Rho says it should be possible. If not, you should have a medikit..."

"F-A-B!" Gordon said, relieved.

"But be quick about it!" Scott added. "Misha's trainer says that tigers like to isolate their prey."

"Omicron from Thunderbird Five!" Alan called out. "I have a fix on your position and the tiger's. She's about ten meters north north-east from you."

Gordon turned to gaze across the stream. With the infrared lenses, he could see the heat signature of the tiger pacing on the bank opposite him... directly in line with the hoverbike. "I see her. She's across the stream from me. I'm making a run for the bike now."

"Do not run!" Margot cried out. "Move slowly and keep your face to her at all times."

He took a deep breath and mentally ordered himself to relax. "F-A-B," he murmured as he stepped back into the water.

"Margot, would the stream deter Misha at all?" Scott asked.

The tiger trainer shook her head, her braid whipping around like a cat's tail. "Non. Tigers love water."

Scott let out a pent-up breath. "Did you get that, Omicron?"

"Yes, though I already knew it," came the terse reply. "She was standing in the creek when we had our little stare down." He stepped slowly towards the hoverbike, feeling the cold current tugging at his legs and sloshing into his leather boots. There was nothing outside of the sound of the water and the darkness, nothing but his goal and the amorphous infrared shape of Misha still pacing on the opposite bank. He tripped, barking his shin on a rock, one he was certain hadn't been there before. He swore as he reached out to catch himself with one hand, and nearly jumped when his hand closed on the barrel of a gun.

"Mobile Control from Omicron. I've found Gregor's gun and it seems to be dry and functional. Instructions?"

"Mobile Control from Base," Jeff cut in. "He's not going to be able to get the trainer out of there without sedating that tiger."

Scott, unused to hearing two voices overlapping in one ear, shook his head and said, "One at a time please! Omicron, you have a trank rifle?"

"Affirmative."

"Commander, you think he'll need to tranquilize the tiger before he can get out of there?"

"Affirmative."

He looked up at Margot. "I asked the other trainers, now I'm asking you: how much of our tranquilizer will it take to knock out Misha?"

Margot turned to Georgio and to another one of the trainers and they went back and forth in a polyglot of tongues that gave Alan, who was listening in ready to translate, a headache. Finally, Margot came back to Scott. "I understand zat ze drug you use is most potent. I gave her food twelve hours ago. Zat will affect her and make it harder to drug her. I should say... two darts."

"Omicron from Mobile Control. You've got to shoot her twice to knock her out."

"F-A-B."

Scott paused as a roustabout came running up to Georgio, speaking urgently. The ringmaster listened for a moment, then turned to the man from IR with a relieved smile. "Our equipment is on its way to your operative. If you could please provide coordinates?"

"Mobile Control to Thunderbird Five, I need coordinates for Omicron's position."

"F-A-B!"

As Scott coordinated things at the Danger Zone, Gordon finally made his way to the hoverbike. He wrestled it upright, splitting his concentration between the tiger on the bank and the machine in his hands.

Scott's voice sounded in his ear. "The circus people are on their way. They have the tiger's real trainer with them. They'll be at your position within the hour."

"F-A-B," Gordon grunted out as he dragged the heavy bike back toward the shore he had left. He glanced up to see that Misha had suddenly gone still and was watching him intently.

_Uh-oh. Well, I guess it's time to use this. _He let go the handlebars of the bike, and brought out the rifle, breaking it open to see that it was loaded. It was. Closing the rifle, he sighted the tiger through the scope, the magnifying effect bringing the hot infrared image closer. He aimed for the animal's right shoulder, took a deep breath and let it out slowly while he pulled the trigger. There was a whizz and a meaty thunk. "That's one," he whispered.

Misha jumped a bit and snarled as the dart hit right were Gordon wanted. He didn't lower the rifle. Instead, he waited for the big cat to settle a bit before taking a second shot. But the agitated tiger began to pace again, giving him a moving target. He kept her in the rifle's sight, and waited. She kept glancing over at him as she paced, as if keeping track of where he was and what he was doing. Finally, he felt he had the rhythm of her movements down and he fired again, aiming for her left hind quarter as she turned and presented it to him. His patience was rewarded as he pulled the trigger and the dart struck her right where he had planned. He murmured, "And that's two."

His mission accomplished, Gordon slung the rifle back over his shoulder, then grabbed the handlebars of his hoverbike again and dragged it backwards to the sandy embankment. As he did, he reported in to Scott. "Mobile Control from Omicron. I've shot the tiger and am bringing the hoverbike to shore." He glanced up at the tiger again. She had given up pacing and was now lying on the ground, looking for all the world like some giant white tabby about to take a nap. She yawned, showing off her long, fierce teeth, then she lay on her side and didn't move again.

Gordon nodded, pleased with his handiwork. He got his transport to the shore then dug into its storage compartment, pulling out the emergency medikit so he could treat Gregor.

xxxx

"What do you mean,_ we _have a problem?" Ramirez asked bluntly as he entered Franks' room.

"Have your people tried to access the files that were downloaded from that disk?"

"I do not know. I am not overseeing that project. Why do you ask?"

"Watch this." As Ramirez watched over his shoulder, Franks clicked on the name of the file he had tried to access earlier. The _File Not Found _error message flashed, just as it had before. "This is what I've gotten for every one of the files I downloaded from that disk. And I'm sure that it's what your people are getting, too."

"And what exactly is the significance of this?" Ramirez asked, stepping back and folding his arms.

"I'm no computer expert, but offhand, I'd say you've got termites."

"Termites?" sputtered Ramirez. "But how?"

"Knowing the cat woman as I do, I'd say that the she got someone to build her one that would attack anything that has to do with International Rescue." Franks shrugged. "She's arrested enough hackers in her career. Probably paid one of them for it."

"And this is loose in our system?" Ramirez shot back.

Franks merely nodded.

The secretary began to curse, loudly, long, and in both Spanish and Portuguese. Finally, he wound down enough to hiss, "I must tell His Excellency." He rushed from the room and slammed the door behind him.

Franks counted to five, then got up and tried the door. In his haste, Ramirez neglected to lock it behind him. This brought a smile to Franks's face. He slipped into his shoes. "Time for a walkabout," he murmured as he checked the corridor, then stepped out, closing the door carefully behind him.


	3. Notes from All Over

_Author's Note: _Been wondering what's been going on with the investigation? Now you'll find out. Oh, and I found and fixed a little plot hole in chapter two concerning Gordon and his helmet. Hey, I'm human. My thanks to Hobbeth for her betareading skills.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**fellowriverrat: **Thanks for the compliments on the end of _Serendipity_. Yes, there's life in the old fox yet. And I'm glad you like Lou's new persona. It's camouflage, pure and simple. And thanks for the good words on the rescue. I try to be as original as I can be on those.

Now, as to your question about Gordon's back. The "back injury from the hydrofoil accident" scenario is actually fanon, not canon, but I am not ignoring it. Like you, I've been there, done that, sometimes do it again. You're right about Jeff not letting Gordon go out if he's not in tip-top shape, though I'm sure that Gords sometimes hides his condition from his father so as not to be left behind. But this is three years after the start of IR and presumably four or five after the accident. He's had a chance to strengthen those muscles, and as a nurse you know that there are right ways to lift something that don't stress the back. So my take on this is that he's lifting with his knees and not taking the man very far. And as far as the new security measures are concerned, they'll get used to them eventually so that they'll be second nature. And yes, the termites are on the loose, chewing the data collected on International Rescue into fine piles of bytes and pixels. But I blushed (and laughed) with your compliments on my research and to my computer consultant: the termites are totally a figment of my imagination. I just hope I haven't given some enterprising hacker an idea...

**Fiona Belagant:** Thanks for the compliments on the story. As for bringing in sweethearts for the boys, I haven't planned on it at this point. But this is a work-in-progress, and as such, you never know what's going to pop into my brain. Don't worry about the codes; it's going to take the boys some time to get used to them, too. Thanks so much for your nice words about my talent and the characterization, especially.

**Bluegrass:** I'm glad that the drawl won't deter you from enjoying the story. As for the computer detailing, as I said to FRR, it's mostly from my imagination, and possibly from watching too many cop/spy TV shows. Thanks for the compliments on the realism of the scene with Gordon; his excellent marksmanship taken directly from canon. As for headaches, the only headache I'm getting is how to pace this and keep up with everyone.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own them, I'm just writing about them. Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats, are mine. Especially the cats. See my bio for information on copying/hotlinking.

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

Gordon managed to get the hoverbike working again and cleaned and dressed Gregor's wounds by the light of the hoverbike's headlight. The man had come around and asked in halting English what had happened to the tiger. Gordon showed him the gun and pointed across the stream, where a white mound could be seen lying in the grass. Gregor began to mutter something under his breath in his native tongue, and Alan, listening in, helpfully used Thunderbird Five's translation software to render the lion trainer's swearing into English for Gordon's benefit. Gordon said nothing. 

The circus people were faster than Scott estimated they would be. They had found a logging road not far from the stream and their all-terrain vehicle traversed it easily. Even so, they could not bring the wheeled cage through the closely grown forest, and had to resort to a sturdy net and metal poles to wrap up and transfer the sleeping Misha to the truck. When the tiger had been moved, Gordon took the hoverbike back down to the water, and ferried Gregor across with it.

Margot came and kissed the bedraggled aquanaut on both cheeks. "Zank you for what you did for my Misha. You were very brave."

Gordon mumbled something about, "all in a day's work" then followed her out to the road. Gregor was hoisted into the cab of the truck for the journey back, and suddenly, Gordon was free to return on his own. "Omicron to Mobile Control, Base and Thunderbird Five, I'm heading back to the Danger Zone."

Scott, Jeff's and Alan's voices all mingled in his ear, all saying, "F-A-B" in their distinctive voices. Gordon paused for a moment, then tapped his earpiece once. "Hey... Lamda?"

"Yes... Omicron?" Alan replied.

"Sorry for being so sharp with you earlier."

"No problem. I think I'd be a bit snarky, too, if I were facing a tiger. And I wouldn't have time for code names, either."

The two chuckled together, then Gordon took off the infrared goggles and put the helmet back on. He started up the hoverbike again and headed down the logging road, following Alan's GPS feed back to the Danger Zone. When he arrived, Scott took one look at him and said, "Delta and Epsilon are taking a break. Get some dry clothes and join them. Then work the winch again." Scott rose and clapped Gordon on the shoulder. "You did good work out there."

Gordon smiled wearily. "Thanks." He started up the hoverbike again, and headed for the huge shadowed hulk that was Thunderbird Two.

xxxx

"Good afte'noon," said the red-haired woman as she approached the counter. She pushed a yellow slip across to the officious older man who stood behind it. "Ah b'leeve yew have a package foah me."

The man picked up the slip, glanced at it, sniffed once, then walked away. When he returned, he had a box, roughly the size of a shoebox, and he handed it over to her, along with the slip. "You'll have to sign for it." He put a pen in front of her.

"O' coahse," she replied, and she wrote her name, Cindy Lou Kelly, on the indicated line. She handed him back the slip, collected up her package, and left.

Once in her van, Cindy Lou put the package down on the van's passenger seat and smiled. It bore the return address of a friend in Virginia who had agreed to collect and forward the mail from Lou Myles's dummy post office box to her local one. _This must be the gizmo Dee promised. I told her she didn't have to rush it, but I guess after the incident... _She patted the box once and pulled out of the parking lot.

Two more errands, and she returned to her new house, pulling up the drive and directly into the garage, the door opening and closing with the touch of a keypad. She left the garage via the side door and followed the flagstone path to the screened-in rear porch. The cats had already made themselves at home behind the screens, though they were still exploring the rest of the house. Moofums and Spot followed her into the house, the first taking a detour to the bowl for a quick snack of kibble, and the second trailing after her as she brought the package into the living room. Here there were still boxes of books and recordings half-unpacked, and walls that had yet to be decorated. Cindy Lou glanced at the empty walls and sighed. She knew she couldn't put up her photo collage again; those were pictures of Lou Myles and she wasn't Lou, at least not right now. She sighed again and took the box through the living room and into her office. Here her computer was set up, the one from the secret room. Spot leapt up on the desktop to sniff the new package as she pulled a pair of scissors from her desk, and proceeded to open the box.

"Ah!" she exclaimed as she took the gadget out. It looked unfinished; in shape it resembled an old-fashioned curling iron, only flat and without the hinged part that grabbed the hair. The handle was made of clear plastic and wires poked out here and there. A small, computer printed booklet of instructions came with it. Cindy Lou opened it and read it through, smiling at the margin notes and occasional doodle that Dee had put in it. Finally, she pulled out a pair of thin batteries and put them in the device, pushing the slider switch to the "on" position. When a tiny green light was visible, she waved it slowly over her desk roughly two inches from the surface.

As she passed by a pencil holder, the gizmo both vibrated and loudly beeped once. "Augh!" she cried, nearly dropping it. The loud noise startled Spot, who drew back, ears flattened, then jumped down from desk. "Not so loud, Dee! Now, how do Ah turn off th' noise if Ah want to?" She inspected it again, and shook her head. "Ah will have to make a note to th' inventah." Dumping the pencils and pens out of the canister, she waved the device over it again. It beeped and vibrated, and she took out a magnifying glass, turning the holder around under a bright light. At last she saw it; a gleaming obsidian spot, no wider than a pencil eraser, stuck to the bottom of the item in question. She smiled, then ran a fingernail over the spot, lifting it so it stuck to the nail. Looking at it through the glass, she admired it for a moment, then flicked it into a plastic cup half full of water.

"Well, Dee, there's still a few thangs t' work out, but Ah think yew've got a winnah heah." She looked around and smiled a sly smile. "Now, wheah do Ah begin th' process of extermination?"

xxxx

Jeff lifted his latest cup of coffee to his lips, sipped it, then grimaced. The coffee pot had been on the warmer throughout the night and the brew now tasted burnt and stale. He set the cup aside with a sigh. _It's not like I'm going to get any sleep anytime soon, not with this much caffeine in my system. And I never sleep while the boys are still out. _He rolled his head around on his neck, then reached up and back with both hands to rub the spot where his neck met his shoulders at the spine_. What I wouldn't give for one of Lucy's massages right now,_ he thought wistfully.

The wish triggered a memory, the memory of lying in bed while Lucille's warm hands, covered with a spicy oil, rubbed and kneaded the tenseness from his shoulders and neck and back... and caused another part of him to tense in anticipation of what would almost surely follow. He could almost feel again her long chestnut hair tickling his back as she worked, and hear the little murmurs and sighs of contentment he used to make. He remembered the fire she kindled in his loins until finally, when the massage was through, he would turn over and pull her to him for a long, passion and promise-filled kiss and they would go on from there. Or, if he was really exhausted from the day, he would drift off to sleep, and wake to find her spooned to him, soft and warm and inviting... _Oh, God, how I miss her!_

He was startled awake by Scott's weary voice. "Base from Mobile Control. Do you read? Come in, base."

_Looks like I was wrong about the sleep._ Sitting up straight, he realized that Scott's portrait was active. He cleared his throat and replied, "Mobile Control from base. We read you five by five. Status report?"

"Thunderbird Two has just put the final car on the track. The animals are all accounted for and the new engine is ready to pull the train to Minsk. Standing down at 2145 hours, local time."

"F-A-B, Mobile Control. We'll be waiting. Base out." Jeff slumped back into his chair for a moment, then got up stiffly and walked to the wide windows. The sun was up somewhere behind gray and sullen clouds. It had been up for a couple of hours but Jeff hadn't noticed. He heard the rattle of dishes in the study and turned to find Kyrano bringing in a breakfast tray. The Malaysian smiled slightly and nodded a greeting to Jeff as he brought the food to the desk.

"How is the rescue going?" he enquired, uncovering a dish, filling the air with the fragrant scent of freshly-broiled bacon.

"Scott has called stand down. They should be on their way home momentarily." Jeff watched as Kyrano picked up a thermal carafe, but before the retainer could pour him a fresh cup, he remarked, "No, please, Kyrano. No more coffee. Just orange juice this morning."

Kyrano glanced up at him and stopped his motion, returning the carafe to an upright position. "As you wish, Mr. Tracy." Both of their heads turned as Virgil's portrait came to life.

"Base from Thunderbird Two. Do you read?"

Jeff crossed to his desk and faced the portrait. Virgil looked as weary as Scott had. "Thunderbird Two from base. We read you five by five. What is your status?"

"We are on our way home. ETA, 1255 hours."

"F-A-B, Thunderbird Two. We'll be ready for you. Base out."

xxxx

Peter Riordan sat at the computer screen in Agent 38's office, clicking through page after page of ID photos. Agent 38, otherwise known as Renée Baptiste, walked in. The contrast between the freckled, red-haired son of Eire and the dark-skinned, black-haired Kalingo of Dominica could not be greater. Peter was taller, and wider, with a snub nose that had seen more than one fight. Renée was short, petite, with a hawk-nose and a streak of silver running through her straight hair from her forehead back, disappearing into the plait at back. She was the I & M manager for the World Congress, and very little of consequence in government escaped her notice. She took the discovery of this plot against International Rescue very, very personally as she felt she should have been the one to uncover it.

"Any luck, Peter?"

"No, luv. Not a bite."

Renée moved closer, peering over Peter's shoulder as he clicked along. He had gotten into such a rhythm that the photo they were searching for passed by before it registered on his mind that he'd found it.

"Hold up! Wait! I think I saw him!"

Renée watched with interest as Peter scrolled back through the pictures until he'd found the one he wanted. His shoulders drooped in relief as he said, "That's the one. That's him."

The Kalingo woman scanned the information. "Fernando RafaelRamirez, secretary to His Excellency, Carlos Esteban Alvarez, Minister of Security." She blew a breath out her nose. "This begins to make a sort of sense. His Excellency hasn't been seen in months; he's been in mourning for his wife and children."

Peter turned to look at her, his puzzled face clearing. "I remember now! They were on their way to visit family in Columbia when their helijet when down in the Gulf of Mexico."

She nodded. "Yes. And ever since, His Excellency has been doing whatever work he has needed to by televid conferencing and online. Or by sending Ramirez as his proxy whenever possible." She leaned up against her desk, facing Peter, and crossed her arms. "It explains why I hadn't heard about this plan. If there was anyone he needed to talk to, he'd probably have them flown out to his private cay in the Exumas."

"D'you think that's where Franks is?" Peter asked.

Renée nodded. "I think it's probable. There would have been records of a private flight..." She waved the redhead out of her desk chair and he moved to another chair beside the desk. Pulling out her PDA, she looked up a number, and activating her vidphone, she made a call. "Mr. Daoud Sebastian, please. Tell him Renée Baptiste is calling." There was a pause and the beefy face of a middle-aged Middle Eastern man appeared.

"Ms. Baptiste, what a pleasure! What can I do for you today?"

Renée paused. "I am having trouble tracking down His Excellency, Mr. Alvarez's secretary, Mr. Ramirez. I was wondering if you could tell me when the last flights to and from His Excellency's home took place?"

"An unusual request, but one I will fulfill." There was a pause again, and Sebastian looked away, barking a question to an underling. Then he returned, his white smile gleaming. "How far back do you need?"

"A week, please," Renée replied.

"Oh, yes. There was a round trip flight from Unity City yesterday, but that was a cargo helicopter bringing supplies to the island. The only other one was six days ago. It was from the island to the city and the helijet only stayed a few hours." He glanced up from whatever he was reading to look at Renée. "No other flights, I am afraid."

"That's what I needed to know. Mr. Ramirez must be at home with His Excellency. I will contact him there. Thank you, Mr. Sebastian."

"You are most welcome, Ms. Baptiste. I look forward to hearing from you again."

Renée cut the call and shuddered. Peter looked at her quizzically. She sighed. "He's a notorious womanizer. Or he would be if his wives didn't keep him on a short leash."

"So, now we know who Franks met, and have an idea of where he went," Peter recounted. "What now?"

"Now, we tell the Pink Lady."

xxxx

Franks sauntered down the corridor, humming a little, his hands in his pockets. He knew that the easiest way to draw attention was to act like a scared rabbit, peering around corners and flattening up against walls. But go around acting as if you belonged there, and people would most likely just glance at you and go on their way.

The hallway he was in had tile floors, which were carpeted with several long runners, all of different Persian designs. The walls were of an off white stucco and paintings were hung here and there. Dark wooden beams crossed the ceiling, but Franks doubted their authenticity. As he neared the end of the hall, he noticed a secondary corridor that cut across the main one. Each short passage ended at a heavy wooden door with ornate hinges and handle, but a sophisticated lock hidden by the hammered iron hardware. Turning to the left, he tested the door, and found it unlocked. Pulling it open, he found himself in a riot of greenery. The wing he inhabited opened onto a wide courtyard, full of flowering tropical plants. The sloping tile roof created a wide overhang beneath it, shading the windows of the rooms on the interior of the square and offering protection from the rains that the Caribbean often got. But not this day. Today the midday sun beat down on the foliage and the mercenary loosened his collar at the steamy heat. He strolled along beneath the overhang, admiring the plant life from the shade and peering in the windows where he could. One of the rooms was filled with computer equipment, and he could see Jorge at a plasma screen, busily tapping away, his brow furrowed. _Must be trying to exterminate those termites. Lotsa luck, amigo._

He bypassed another door and turned the corner. He saw nothing of real interest in the windows but, on a whim, he pushed open the next one he came to. This put him in a short cool hallway like the one he had just left. He followed it until he could turn either right or left or go straight ahead. He opted to turn right, down a much wider corridor. After a dozen yards, his way was blocked by a double door, the same style of the others, but stretching across the hall. He put an ear to the wood but heard nothing. Taking that as a good sign, he pulled one side open as quietly as he could and peered inside.

"Come in, Señor Franks," a voice suddenly called. "It is time we met."


	4. Reports And Instructions

_Author's Note:_ Twists and turns galore here. My thanks to Hobbeth being a sounding board and for her betareading skills, as well as letting me use her idea of a medical space station. And to FrankieC for her input on Lady Penelope's "horsey" talk.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Math Girl: **Yeah, those termites may cause some havoc... as you will see. Thanks for the good words on the plot. It keeps developing as I go along.

**Claudette: **Where do I get these ideas? From too many TV shows and comic books in some cases. As you saw and commented on, the darts did work. And in this chapter you'll discover just why they pulled the code names out of a hat. His Excellency is pretty ticked off and not just because of the termites. You've got an interesting slant on why he's after IR. Unfortunately you'll have to wait a bit to discover his reasons. More about the bugs in this chapter as well.

**fellowriverrat: **I'm glad you like the accent. It's a sort of read-aloud thing; if you read it aloud, you get an idea of how she sounds. And thanks for the good words on the rescue. As for Lucille's hair color, John Marriott, in his book_ Thunderbirds Are Go! _is the one who says that Lucille and Virgil look very much alike, a fact that's been used in other fics to show Jeff at odds with Virgil because of that resemblance. However, Marriott says that the resemblance caused the two to have a good relationship, not a bad one. Yes, the two blonds and the redhead are in the genetics. Few writers have ever discussed what Grandma or Grant looked like when they were younger and even fewer have tried to describe Lucille's parents either. So there are plenty of genetic reasons for Jeff and Lucy's sons to have the variety of hair colors they ended up with.

The security measures are here to stay and will be refined as things go along and they discover what works and what doesn't. Whether or not it's in time is a good question, and one that Jeff will be asking himself. Is it feasible? Only time will tell, won't it?

**ArtisticRainey:** Glad you're enjoying this one as much or more than _Serendipity_! And thanks for your email review; I'm glad that _Serendipity _accomplished its purpose!

_Disclaimer: _I don't own them, I'm just writing about them. Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats, are mine. Especially the cats. See my bio for information on copying/hotlinking.

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

Franks stood stock still, startled that the man knew that he was there. He glanced quickly around the room and finally saw the room's only occupant, standing by a window with a magnificent view of the sea and the neighboring island on the horizon. "I take it you are Minister Alvarez?" he asked, trying to regain the upper hand. 

"I am," the man said simply. He turned to face Franks and the two of them studied each other. Franks saw a man, slightly past middle age, with a receding hairline and silver patches in his dark hair at the temples. His face was broad, and he had a strong, hawk like nose and an equally strong chin. He was shorter than Franks, but had broad shoulders and a solid frame, not flabby, but not thin. His skin was well tanned and he wore a conservative beige suit with a black armband over the left sleeve. There was an aura of power around him, compelling respect and obedience. He seemed to be a man who would and could get whatever he wanted, regardless of the cost. But is was his eyes that disturbed Franks the most. They were dark and hooded and inscrutably cruel.

"I understand, Señor Franks, that there has been some little difficulty with the disk you retrieved." His voice was low and commanding and there was something odd about the accent, something that Franks couldn't place.

The mercenary found himself fidgeting and didn't know why. He willed his body to stillness and replied, "That's right. Lucinda Myles set up a dummy disk and attached a bunch of termites to the files."

"Ah. Clever woman." Alvarez turned back to the window. "I fear that you have forfeited your fee, Señor Franks. You did not bring us what we requested. All that work for nothing."

Franks's eyes narrowed. "I did what was required! It wasn't my fault that the conniving bitch created a dummy. We _broke _her to get this disk!"

"Broke her? I would not be so sure. A woman who creates such a convincing replica and such a virulent termite would be able to manipulate a simpleton such as you, Señor Franks."

_Keep cool, Jimmy old son. He's pulling your chain._ The blond moved slowly toward Alvarez. "I doubt she developed the termite. That's not in her resumé. But..." His odd voice became less threatening, more ingratiating. "She wouldn't have destroyed the original. And I can get it."

"By yourself? It took five of you to get this... replica." Alvarez sneered. "Do not waste my time with idle promises."

"Tracy was with her. We had to have the extra manpower." Franks moved still closer, fists balled. "But just her? I can take her. I was her partner. I know what she knows, how she thinks, all of her moves. I _can _take her, and get you what you want. All you have to do is say the word. And pay me half my fee."

By this time Franks had quietly moved to within two meters of Alvarez and was preparing to show him that Jim Franks was not to be trifled with. Suddenly, Alvarez snapped his fingers. "Luis."

Franks turned as a tall, heavily built man stepped out of a curtained alcove. He held a semi-automatic rifle in his hands, a weapon at odds with his well-cut suit. He had a wireless communicator in one ear, and he murmured something Franks couldn't hear. Within minutes, the double door slammed opened and two of the massive household guards came running in, pistols at the ready.

Alvarez turned to stare impassively at Franks, who had his hands up in surrender. He snapped his fingers again, and the two guards grabbed the blond roughly, twisting his arms back and fastening them with plastic cuffs. "I have many enemies, señor, so I am always under guard." The minister of security turned back to the window. "You are fortunate that I did not have them kill you. But it is hard to remove the bloodstains from the carpet." He paused. "I will consider your offer. As for now, you will be returned to your room until I decide your fate." Motioning with his hand, he ordered, "Take him away."

The men dragged a silent, seething Jim Franks away from the office. Alvarez sighed and nodded to Luis, who returned to his post. He wandered over to his desk, selecting a fine cigar from the humidor, clipping one end before lighting it, and taking a deep drag on it. Then he returned to the window to stare unseeing at the blue waters. _I needed that information to show to Tracy. To convince him that I was serious about my intent. But I do not have it, and everything else that was collected is destroyed. _He shook his head slightly, breathing out the cigar smoke. _I do not know whether to believe the mercenary about the Myles woman. If she was farsighted enough to create the replica, surely she would have seen the danger in having the information and would have destroyed it. And intelligent enough that she will not have stayed where Franks found her._

His eyes widened as he took another drag on the cigar. _But Tracy **was there**! She must know, she must have learned who runs International Rescue! So he has seen what was collected... and will be on his guard against future incursions. _He rubbed his chin with the hand holding the cigar, spilling ash on the floor. _But does he know **why **it was collected? Hmm. I may still be able to blackmail the man. This Myles person is someone who he knows and knows well. And who might know the operations of International Rescue well enough to give me the information I need._

xxxx

Jeff yawned widely. It was after three p.m. The boys were back home, fed, and debriefed. The Thunderbirds were refueled, restocked and ready for the next call. Now the house was quiet as his sons got some badly needed sleep. He tapped on his keyboard with finality, saving the notes he had just dictated on the rescue. His shoulders slumped, and he rolled his head around again, feeling and hearing the tiny cracking noises made by his neck as he did. He scrolled through the log, making notes or highlighting certain passages for comments later. Coming upon the part where Gordon had put the call in to Alan without using code names, he sat back and tapped his chin with a stylus.

_Alan really hates his code name. I suppose I can't blame him; the older boys find it amusing. Something about lambs, I guess. He'd feel that the most, being the youngest and trying for so long to be considered as an adult by his siblings. Maybe I should have just gone with Scott's suggestion and given them the Greek letters in order of their births or something. But... Lou said we had to do whatever we could to hide the number of operatives we really have. The random assignment seemed to be the safest. Maybe I'll let him choose again; after all, we're still new to the code names, it wouldn't be much of an adjustment. Virgil's not pleased at having to use them at all, but he'll have to get used to it. We all will. _He glanced at his computer's clock. _Speaking of Lou, I promised I'd call her back... what time it is in New York, anyway?_

He did a quick calculation, found it was 10 p.m. the previous day in New York, and placed his call.

A sleepy voice answered, "Cindy Lou heah. Who may Ah ask is callin'?"

"It's Jeff."

The picture came up and a tousled and tired Lou looked back at him. She smiled wearily at him. "Well, suh. Y'all mustn't be busy ennymore."

"Hello, Lou. No, we're not 'busy' anymore. The boys are all asleep; it was a long night." Jeff yawned. "What have you been up to?"

"Exterminatin' bugs," she answered.

"Exterminating bugs?"

"Yeah. The kind o' bugs thet trigger mah surveillance detectah. Ah got th' furniture in mah livin' room, office, an' mah bedroom done."

"Oh!" Jeff nodded, and yawned again. " Now I understand." He gave her a puzzled look. "That's got to be hard. How do you know you've gotten them all?"

Lou smiled, and held up Dee's new gadget. "With this. Dee's latest inventshun. Still got a few bugs o' it's own, but it works." She put up a hand to cover a yawn of her own, then said,. "So, how are th' boys takin' the new procedures?"

Jeff sighed. "Not too well in some cases. But they'll get used to them."

"O' coahse. New thangs take tahme to get used to." She indicated her hair. "It's takin' tahme foah me t' git used t' this hayah. Ah look in th' mirror an' Ah still see a strangeah."

"Well, at least at the end of the day you can take out the contacts and peel off the beauty mark," Jeff commented, but Lou shook her head.

"Nope. Ah had mah irises dayhed, an' th' beauty mark is a temporary tattoo. They'll both fade in about three months, then Ah'll ahthuh have t' get 'em redone..." She dropped the accent with a sigh. "...or I'll go back to being Lou Myles."

"That's not..." Jeff failed to stifle another wide yawn. "That's not a bad thing, is it?"

"Not if we can get this situation 'under control'," Lou replied. She raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly. "You look like you could use some sleep yourself."

"Well, yes," he admitted. "I've just been dictating notes on the 'business trip'." He yawned again, and shook his head.

"So? Go t' bed already," Lou said, her accent back in place. "Ah'll do th' same. G'naht, Jeff."

"Goodnight, Lou. Talk to you again soon."

"Lookin' fo'ard to it. G'bye."

The call ended, and Jeff stood. He stretched, rubbed his eyes, and toggled a switch. "Kyrano? I'm off to bed."

"Very good, Mr. Tracy. Shall I wake you for dinner?"

Jeff thought a moment and said, "Please do. Goodnight, Kyrano."

"Sleep well, Mr. Tracy."

xxxx

"Uhhhh." Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward made a most unladylike sound as she turned over in bed. She had endured a long night. The Duke of Denver had held a black-tie benefit dinner and dance, raising funds for the cause _du jour_, a privately funded space station for cancer research and treatment. There had been entirely too much champagne served, and the dinner, though exquisite, had made her feel a touch bloated, so she had danced far longer than she had intended with a number of distinguished gentlemen to counteract the food. As a result, she did not arrive back at her manor home until after two. It wasn't often that she let herself indulge like that, but then His Grace was an old friend, and if chatting up and dancing with the potential contributors would aid the cause, she was willing to make the sacrifice.

She thought wistfully that she would have liked for Jeff to have been there, but he had declined the invitation weeks ago, pleading his workload at Tracy Industries. However, she suspected that once he had seen the prospectus on the space station, and had done some research to satisfy himself as to its _bona fides_, he would tender a substantial donation.

There was a discreet knocking at the door, and Parker's voice called out, "Yer breakfast, milady."

"In my sitting room, Parker. I shall be just a moment."

"Very good, milady."

Penelope pulled back the covers and sat up, holding a hand to her head, which had begun to throb and ache. Rising to her feet, she passed by the sequined gown that was thrown carelessly over an antique Louis XVI armchair, upholstered in a pale pink striped fabric. Entering her bath, she found her pink dressing gown with the pale pink marabou feathers around the collar, and slipped it on. Her matching heeled slippers were also there, and she slid her feet into them. She brushed her luxurious blonde tresses to get the night's snarls out, and stepped out into her boudoir's sitting room. Parker was already pouring her a cup of fragrant Earl Grey, dropping in the requisite one lump with a pair of silver tongs. Penelope arranged herself on her Louis XV chaise lounge (it was getting difficult to find antique pieces where the kings' number matched) and took the proffered cup with a murmured thank you.

Parker brought over her breakfast tray, and set it across her lap. " 'Ere h'is yer PDA with yer messages from yesterday, milady. H'Ay've 'ighlighted one in partikular."

She sipped her tea with one hand and held the data pad up with the other. "Ah! Excellent! It seems that our elusive Mr. Franks has been run to ground. His Excellency, the Minister of Security? I suppose that makes some kind of sense, although I cannot think of what possible motive he might have to blackmail International Rescue." She put the PDA down and took another sip. "I wonder what can be done to stop His Excellency and capture this Franks person?" Penelope continued to sip her hot drink as she turned over various plans in her mind. Finally, she glanced over at her butler-chauffeur and general partner in espionage. "Parker, prepare the Rolls. I shall be going to town." Taking a bite of her shirred eggs, she chewed and swallowed, then waved a dainty hand. "Before you go, please hand me the teapot. I must tell Jeff of these developments. What time is it on Tracy Island?"

Parker looked at his watch as he brought over the still-warm silver teapot. "H'Ay beleeve it t' be h'around nine-thirty in th' h'evenin', milady."

"Excellent. I shall call Jeff as soon as I finish my meal. You may go, Parker. Lil can clear."

"Very good, milady." Parker said, smiling slightly. He left her sitting room with quiet dignity, closing the double doors behind him. Once outside her room, he rubbed his hands together. "She's got h'a plan fer h'us, an' no mistake! P'raps h'even h'a trip t' H'Unity City. Best get h'on wit' preparin' FAB-1."

At Tracy Island, night had finally fallen, and in the lounge, Virgil was softly playing "Liebestraum". Jeff was behind his desk, barely hearing the music, and perusing the prospectus on the medical space station, when the pink pearls of Penelope's portrait flashed. Virgil stopped playing. Jeff got up from his desk, adjusted his shirt, and strode over to the picture. "Go ahead, Pink Lady."

"Good evening, J... I mean, Commander. It's so good to see you," Penelope began, a pleased smile crossing her beautiful face.

"And to see you," Jeff responded. "Is this a social call?"

"Oh, no. Business as always when I use the communicator. I have some excellent news. Our agents in Unity City believe they have found just where our Mr. Franks has gone to ground."

Jeff rubbed his hands together. "That_ is _excellent news, Pe... Pink Lady! Where is he?"

"They believe he was taken to the private cay of His Excellency, Fernando Rafael Alvarez, the minister of security. He was last seen in the company of His Excellency's private secretary, Carlos Esteban Ramirez. Agent 53 picked him out from security photographs provided by Agent 38. There was one flight to Unity City from His Excellency's island and back again that day. Our agents believe that Franks was on that return flight."

"Has he been seen in Unity City since then?" he asked, rubbing his chin.

"No, he has not. There has only been one other flight to or from Unity City since then, and that was a cargo helicopter full of supplies."

"Still, there's no guarantee that he made it to the cay or that he's still there," Jeff mused. He looked up at Penelope, smiled and asked, "How does your social calendar look?"

"Let me consult my schedule." The PDA came into view. "I have a golf date with Sir Jeremy Hodges for this afternoon. There is to be a tea at the home of Her Grace, the Duchess of Royston tomorrow in honor of her 75th birthday. I am to present the Gold Cup at Cheltenham later in the week. FAB 3 was to be in the race, but has taken lame, poor thing. The vet has been out to look at him." She smiled. "I know Sir Jeremy will be understanding, and I am certain Deborah will be as well. I shall call Cheltenham and tell them an emergency has come up and I shall not be able to attend. They usually have an alternate for such an occasion." Jeff could see her stand up straighter and square her shoulders. "So. I am available. What shall I do?"

"Go to Unity City and find some way to get out to Alvarez's island, and determine if Franks is there. Also, find out what you can about this blackmailing plot. Is Alvarez behind it, and why?" Jeff became very serious. "This is a dangerous mission. We've already seen that these people will stop at nothing to gain their ends."

She nodded. "I had precisely the same idea. I shall be very careful... Commander. I have already set things in motion to give me an opening to see Alvarez. Par...Nosey will be with me and I shall be taking FAB-1, as well."

"Sounds like you have things well in hand. Stay in constant contact and don't be afraid to call on our agents in Unity City. Agent 38 should have briefed Agents87 and112 on the situation by now."

"She has done so." In fact, Renée had asked for instructions on that matter in her email, and Penelope had instructed her to tell the other two agents, a doctor and a firefighter, everything that was going on.

"F-A-B, Pink Lady. Good luck and Godspeed." Jeff said solemnly.

"Thank you, Commander. London agent signing off." The portrait of Penelope, painted so well by Virgil, became a mere figure on canvas again. Penelope pulled the vidphone to her. "Now to call the Prime Minister..."

Jeff stood in deep in thought for a long moment until Virgil's voice broke through his musings. "Father?" he asked, rising from his piano bench and approaching his sire. "Why do we send her out on such dangerous assignments? So many times she's nearly gotten killed and it's only because we've rushed in to rescue her that she has survived."

His father sighed. "That's what she lives for, Virgil. The excitement of the hunt; the romance of the intrigue. It's what has made her such a vital part of our operations, and why I put her in charge of all of our agents, worldwide. She could never settle down to live the life of the idle rich, even though that's her cover. It's what she loves and what she trained to do. She gets the same thrill from it that you get flying your 'Bird."

"Yes, I understand that. But she's so fragile..."

Jeff shook his head. "No. Far from it, son. She's got ice water in her veins and steel in her backbone. The pretty pampered lady is as much of a _façade_ as... as the code names we're now forced to use. Speaking of which, I understand you're having some trouble with them?"

Virgil nodded. "Yes, I am. Especially Alan's. I want to laugh out loud when I use it or hear it." He frowned. "Why do we have to use them anyway?"

"Don't you remember the pictures that Lou sent to us?" Jeff asked, concerned. "Didn't you read the descriptions of our operations? Your name, your brothers' names; they were in there. Someone could easily track us down if they put all the pieces together, as this Interpol agent had done." He put a hand on Virgil's shoulder. "It's best that we do what we can to prevent this kind of thing in the future." He took in a deep breath and let it out through his nose. "I just hope it's not too little, too late." Catching Virgil's eye, he said, "Can you live with it, Virgil? I know that of all my sons, you and Alan had neither the talents nor the desire to enter the military. It's easier for Scott, Gordon, John... and myself. Our lives were ruled by acronyms and code words." Reaching out, he put a hand on Virgil's shoulder. "I don't want to sound like I'm belittling your choice in _not_ entering the military. I know from experience that it's not for everyone."

Virgil nodded his head and sighed. "I understand. I suppose I'll get used to it. But it'll be hard not to chuckle at Alan's name."

"In that case, I'll let him change it to something less amusing," Jeff said with a wry smile. He raised his hand to clap Virgil on the shoulder. "I'm going to see if there were any dessert leftovers. You want to come?"

Virgil smiled slightly and shook his head. "No thanks, Dad. I think I'm going to practice some more."

"Okay, son. I'll leave you to it." With that, the Tracy patriarch strode from the room, his mouth already watering at the thought of a slice of Kyrano's chocolate torte.

Virgil watched him go, then turned back to the portrait of Penelope. He reached up to run a finger along the painted cheek and whispered, "Be careful, Beautiful."

xxxx

"What do we have, MacPherson?"

The computer tech sighed, pushing a strand of her brown hair back behind an ear. "A very complex, very virulent termite, of unknown origin, sir."

The short, slim man with the salt-and-pepper hair and mustache leaned over the tech's terminal. "What exactly is it doing?"

"It seems to be destroying any and all information concerning International Rescue."

He frowned, the creases on his forehead falling into a familiar pattern. "Why would International Rescue set a termite on us? We haven't done anything to harm them."

MacPherson shook her head. "I don't know, Mr. Donovan. I'm still trying to track down where it came from. Mohenu over there is checking it against the signatures of known hackers and cyber terrorists."

Donovan nodded, still frowning. "Tell me if you or Mohenu come up with anything. I just wish I could figure out why International Rescue would drop a termite into Interpol's database."

"I'd like to know that, too, sir."

Piers Donovan, head of Interpol, sighed and gave MacPherson a half smile before going on to other pressing matters, putting aside the mystery of the International Rescue termite to the back of his mind until a more convenient time.


	5. Meetings of the Minds

_Author's Note: **Wow! **_What a hornets' nest I stirred up with three little words! My thanks to Hobbeth being a sounding board and for her betareading skills. And to FrankieC and Math Girl for listening and giving advice. You'll notice that Parker's accent is a bit different than I've written it before. That's thanks to MadFriend's stories, where I think she's got his accent down much more authentically than I ever have.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Claudette: **You always have such interesting theories about where the story is going and the motivations of the characters. Thanks for the good word on the Virgil bit; as you can see, not all of my reviewers shared your calm assessment. And thanks for the compliments on Jeff and his relationship with his sons. For IR to operate, and operate well, there has to be some give here and there on the Commander's part. As for Señor Alvarez, you'll have to wait.

**fellowriverrat: **As you already know, your reaction to those three words gave me a good laugh. I really didn't realize what I was getting into when I typed them. Thanks for the compliment on the element of surprise in chapter 3. I hope I can keep up with it.

**Bluegrass:** Minister Alvarez has depths we have yet to plumb. Thanks for the compliments on Jeff's interaction with Alan. As far as Virgil is concerned, patience is necessary. I appreciate your comments on my expertise in developing new characters. We'll see what happens with Penelope and Virgil. Hopefully they won't take things out of my hands, as characters have been known to do.

**Math Girl: **Franks and the termites have plenty of things still to do, and Franks at least will likely give IR some more headaches. But, if you go back to _Serendipity_, Lou gave Jeff the template for the termite to add to their anti-virus protocols, so I doubt they'll be bothering IR.

**FrankieC: **I _knew _I'd get this reaction out of you, girlfriend. But don't think I did it merely to get your reaction (or the evening of laughs that you gave me over the IM about it). As I said, patience. All will eventually be revealed.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own them, I'm just writing about them. Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats, are mine. Especially the cats. See my bio for information on copying/hotlinking.

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

Lady Penelope left Number Ten Downing Street carrying a burgundy leather briefcase. It wasn't pink, but it was the best that the Prime Minister could do at short notice. 

"Where to, milady?" Parker asked as he handed her into FAB-1.

"Home, Parker. I have some more planning to do. And I must pack."

Three hours later, a regal and distinctive silver Rolls Royce pulled up to the car loading ramp of Flight 404, a direct flight from London to Unity City on Air Terranian's latest model Skythrust. Parker got out, wiping an imaginary smudge off the surface of the car. His employer was already in the VIP lounge, waiting to board. The airline's official, security checked, specially trained valet parking attendant came down the ramp, his eyes gleaming at the sight of the luxury car.

"Oi'll take h'it from 'ere, mate," he said to Parker, holding out his hands for the keys.

Parker shook his head. "Ay don't think so, may gud man." He pulled a folder from his chauffeur's uniform pocket and handed a piece of paper to the attendant.

Immediately, the man's face fell. "Diplomatical, eh? Oi jus' 'ope h'it's been checked fer bombs an' the loike." He handed the paper back to Parker.

"Clean h'as h'a whistle," Parker assured him, tucking the paper back into the folder, and then back into his pocket.

"H'All roight then. Move 'er h'on h'up! There's people waitin' be'ind yeh." Now that Parker had established his right to drive his employer's car up into the belly of the jet, the attendant's attitude changed from helpful to officious. Parker shot his cuffs, fingered the thick salt-and-pepper mustache he was wearing as disguise, slipped back behind the wheel, and eased the camouflaged FAB-1 into the holding bay. He went around back to see that the new diplomatic plate was firmly fastened, and jumped as the attendant rudely honked at him. Scurrying out of the way, he watched with consternation as the car that the attendant was driving came to within two inches of FAB-1's rear bumper. The attendant got out, looked at his handiwork, and gave Parker a smug and cheeky smile. _I'll wipe that smile off his face with my fist if milady's Rolls takes so much as a scratch in flight, _the chauffeur promised himself as he left the car bay.

Before taking his seat in coach, Parker made sure that Lady Penelope was comfortable. "H'Is there h'anythin' yeh'll be needin'... madam?"

"No, Parks. I am quite comfortable," Penelope replied, sitting back in her well-padded, well-upholstered, first-class, VIP armchair. She wore a chic dark blue dress and a long dark wig, reminiscent of the one she wore while posing as "Wanda Lamour". "Please do not worry. I am sure that the cabin crew will take good care of me. Take your seat and relax."

"Yus, madam," Parker said with a half-bow. He made his way back to coach where he shared a pair of seats with a slightly-deaf elderly lady who insisted on showing him all the photos she had brought of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. _She's worse than milady's friend, Her Grace! _Parker thought with consternation. He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, snoring loud enough for the lady to hear... and to irritate the other passengers around him. But somewhere during the flight to the Bahamas, he actually succeeded in dozing off and had a satisfying dream about using the old "Parker Haymaker" to wipe the smirks off an ever-growing number of officious valet parking attendants.

Penelope pulled out her burgundy briefcase and extracted the latest fashion magazine from its depths. As Ms. Alison St. Clair, the prime minister's new "social secretary", she was supposedly coordinating an upcoming visit to the World Congress from her "employer", a task which would necessitate an appointment with the minister of security. She had been given diplomatic status so that neither her luggage nor FAB-1 would be searched. _Which is good, considering some of the more... questionable items in my luggage. Really, Edward was such a dear to give me this cover. I shall have to find an appropriate way to express my gratitude._

xxxx

A bleary-eyed Cindy Lou brought her coffee into her office and activated her computer. She had just spent the past hour and a half going through her kitchen implements, scanning each one as necessary. There hadn't been as many listening devices in the kitchen as there had been on the living room accoutrements, but what few she found were hidden in the most inconvenient places and were difficult to see and remove. She would wave her "magic wand" (as she had begun to call it) over a drawer full of cutlery and it would vibrate and beep. She'd swear, then dump all the utensils out on the table or counter, scanning again and again until she found all the bugs. The only things she did not have to scan were her kitchen table and chairs. They were new, bought to replace the ones tainted with the memory of her ordeal just passed.

She connected with the web, her wireless interface working perfectly. Her connecting modem was state-of-the art, and rendered her invisible to the rest of the web. She could come and go in cyberspace without being noticed, leaving no pesky ISP numbers by which she could be traced. She was given the specs by a hacker she had once arrested; a gift, she was told, for treating the computer whiz like "a human being" and not like a geek. She and Dee had worked together on the project to dig out the little telltales that would enable the hacker himself to invade the wireless set up and upload what he wanted. The two of them built one for Lou, and one for Dee, thus ensuring the privacy of Dee's own work, the specs of which usually ended up in her computer's memory. _Hmm. I bet IR could use this, too, _she realized, and made a mental note to have Dee forward the corrected specs to her so she could pass them on to Brains through her cyber dropbox.

Right now she was searching for a series of particular websites, ones that she had been monitoring ever since she opened the file with the collected info on International Rescue. The sites were all anti-IR, a thing she would never have believed existed until she went looking for them. Some were rather harmless, just a group of discontented people grousing about the celebrity of the Thunderbirds and or dissecting the latest rescue as reported in the news. Some were rabidly anti-IR; it was these that she watched the closest and made notes of who said what and when so she could try and track down the authors. It was from the most rabid of these that she had first heard the rumors of the blackmail scheme, although it wasn't put quite that way. It was more of "a leak, confirmed by a reliable source" giving vague details of a plan to put IR under "proper governmental control", words that had waved a big red flag in her mind. It had caused her to call a few old informants in Unity City to get confirmation of the rumors, and once they were confirmed, wring as much intelligence as she possibly could out of her sources.

Now she entered the site, checking the home page, and scrolling down the message boards, making notes of inflammatory statements or titles. A critique of what she supposed was the latest rescue was posted, with the headline, "IR puts life of tiger ahead of human life!" _Where do they get this information?_ she wondered. _From the press? From bystanders? IR can't function in a vacuum, but as of this morning the legitimate press hadn't even reported this! Someone is cyber stalking them somehow, getting information on their movements whenever they surface, possibly even tapping into their frequencies! It's only a matter of time until they are traced back to Jeff and his family, and when that happens, all hell will break loose!_

She continued to scroll down, and as she refreshed the page, a new headline popped up. Her eyes widened as she read, "IR plants devastating termite in government agency database!"

"Damn!" she drawled. "That bastard Franks musta opened th' fayles whahle he was hackin' into a government saht. Which one was it?" She read the terribly biased report, and groaned. "Oh no! Not Interpol!" Sitting back, she stared at the screen unseeing for a moment, then suddenly, she opened an email window and began to type. "If Interpol's involved, they'ah not gonna stop 'til they fahnd who's responsible. Ah gotta warn Tony!"

xxxx

"Mr. Donovan?" The secretary's voice floated over the intercom.

"Yes?"

"Baye Mohenu wants to speak with you. He says it's important."

"Thank you. Send him in."

The young Ghanian with the thick round glasses entered Piers Donovan's office with a sheaf of papers and a data pad in his hand. "Sir, we may have tracked down the creator of this termite."

Donovan got up from behind his desk and motioned Mohenu to a small table near a window overlooking Lake Geneva. The two sat down, and the computer tech laid his papers and the data pad on the table top. "This termite was very hard to trace, and even now I'm not completely sure we have a match. It was stripped down to the bare essentials, with none of the usual signature fillips a hacker usually gives his or her work." He pulled a paper to a position between them and pointed to a small printout of code. "But here we have a part in the design of the termite that matched the works of a cyber terrorist in our database. He was arrested eight years ago, did five years for intellectual property crimes, then was released two years ago. We hadn't heard from him at all... until now, it seems." He handed his superior a data pad, opened to a file with a mug shot showing a young Asian man, his impassive face staring unblinkingly at the camera. "His name is Anthony Cho and he's from Singapore."

Donovan scanned the file once, then went back and read it thoroughly. He glanced up at Mohenu. "Do you think that International Rescue could have recruited him to build them this termite?"

The tech shook his head. "I don't know, sir. They seem to have the most advanced technology in the world at their disposal. To develop such high-level equipment means that they must have a computer genius or two, maybe even more, working for them. The kind of genius who wouldn't find a termite like this much of a challenge. To me, it seems unlikely."

The Interpol director nodded his head. "You may be right. Has MacPherson had any luck in tracking down where this came from?"

"No, sir," Mohenu shook his head again. "She's had to stop her search to help Bates isolate this thing. It's simple, but very, very tricky to catch."

Donovan sighed. "I'll assign a detail from Singapore to have a little chat with our Mr. Cho." He scrolled through the file again. "Hmm. I see he was arrested by Myles and Franks. I'll have Neussel get in touch with Myles, get some insight on Cho from her. I doubt Franks would be cooperative, even if we could find him. I'll keep this for now," he said, standing with the data pad in his hand. "Good work, Mohenu. Now I need more of it. See if you can find out where this termite came from and if it has infected any other governmental computer systems."

"Yes, sir," the computer tech said, rising from his seat. He picked up his papers, tamped them on the table, and left the room.

Donovan returned to his desk and activated his vidphone. "Sandy? Put me in touch with Neussel in the U.S., please." There was a pause, then the caller picked up the line. "Hello, Ilsa? How are you? I need you to get in touch with one of our retired agents, purely for some information on an old case. Her name is Lucinda Myles."

xxxx

"Before we begin, I want to stress something. Since we have an open channel from here to Thunderbird Five, we need to either use our code names or use no names at all," Jeff cautioned. He looked around the room at his sons, four of whom sat in the room and one whose face peered out from his communications portrait. "And, as of now, the current space monitor's new code name is Sigma. Please remember that." He turned to Tin-Tin. "You have the floor... Theta." With that, he sat down behind his desk again, picking up a data pad and stylus, ready to take notes.

"Now, I've called this meeting for a very important reason," Tin-Tin began. She stood before Jeff's desk, data pad in hand, and faced the Tracy sons. Eleanor sat on Thunderbird Three's sofa, a pensive look on her face. Brains sat next to her, a data pad of his own in hand, absorbed in whatever information he was reading.

"I called you here to get some input from you on the new uniform design. Since you know what does and doesn't work with the uniforms you currently have, I thought that you might be able to give me some pointers on what you'd like to have in a new one." She smiled nervously, then asked, "Who wants to go first?"

The Tracys looked at each other, clearly out of their depth. They had not had any say in the design of their first uniform, Jeff had designed it himself with a little help from Penelope and they had accepted it without question. Now they were being asked their opinions, and the truth was they hadn't really thought about it. Scott raised his hand, and let Tin-Tin know this. "Uh, I don't know about the rest of you, but I hadn't really thought all that much about our uniforms. I mean, as long as they're functional, who cares what they look like?"

"Well, they have to be more than just functional, S... uh, Alpha," Gordon piped up. "You know that in any organization a uniform is a symbol of unity and identification." He glanced over at Tin-Tin. "I think that what we've got does both of those things pretty well."

Virgil sat back and put his hands behind his head. "I think they make us look too militaristic," he commented.

"I don't think they make us look 'militaristic' enough!" John shot back. "I mean, what military group wears... pastels?"

"Don't you mean lavender, Epsilon?" Alan teased. He was pleased that this meeting was going on while he was in space. There were lots of things he could say and get away with, hoping that his brothers would forget by the time he returned planetside.

"What's wrong with pastels?" Virgil asked. "The old United Nations wore light blue. It was a symbol of peace." He looked to Jeff. "Isn't that why you chose that color for the main uniform?"

He nodded. "Well, yes. Penelope thought it was an appropriate color for a non-partisan group to wear."

Eleanor piped up. "But it's turned out to be less than practical as far as keeping it clean is concerned."

The Tracy sons looked at each other. "Well, in that case," Scott said carefully. "Maybe it's time for another color?"

"I agree," John said, sitting up. "Which one?"

"Black!" shouted Gordon.

"White!" riposted Virgil.

"White?" Eleanor asked, shocked. "Do you know how hard _that _would be to keep clean?"

"How about silver?" Alan suggested. "You know. A pale silver, one piece jumpsuit with colors coded to our ships..."

Gordon cut him off. "Nah! We don't wanna look like a bunch of race car drivers, Alan!" He clapped his hand over his mouth as the rest of the assembly's attention focused on him, expressions of shock or warning on their faces. He took down the hand and said softly, "I mean, uh, Sigma."

"Would navy blue be a good compromise?" Tin-Tin suggested.

John shook his head. "I like Omicron's idea. Black for me."

"Then no one can see you in the dark!" Virgil came back. "We do a lot of night time rescues, you know."

" 'In space, by no one can you be seen'," Alan intoned with a sepulchral voice. He trailed off as his brothers all stared at him with expressions from annoyed to befuddled.

"I like a n-nice brown," Brains said, his comment coming out of nowhere.

"Look like a bunch of package delivery men," Gordon muttered.

"How about a good camouflage pattern, like in the military?" Scott suggested.

The rest of the Tracy sons groaned. "Alpha, if you go with camo, you've got to have one for every occasion. Snow, sand, jungle. It's never ending!" Gordon explained.

"What about gray?" Eleanor suggested. "A nice light gray with dark colors to contrast. Like a navy blue, or a deep gold, maybe an ochre..."

"With all due respect, GM, black is cool. Gray is not," Alan replied.

"It's only cool if you're out of the sun," Virgil muttered. Gordon gave him a dirty look.

"If we went with black, we could use a florescent fabric in a contrasting color. That way you'd have some idea who was where when you were out at night," Tin-Tin said, looking at her data pad and making notes.

"Ah, but what coordinating colors?" John asked. "I refuse to have pastels. No more lavender!"

"You've made your point, J... uh, Epsilon," Jeff said from his desk.

"Hey! Could we use neon colors?" Gordon suggested, bouncing up and down.

"That's an idea," Scott chimed in. "Florescent fabric in neon colors."

"No one said it was a _good_ idea," muttered Virgil.

Brains frowned, still absorbed in his reading. "I w-wouldn't be able to have, uh, brown."

"We'd find you a color just as good, Rho," John assured him. He turned to Tin-Tin. "Now, I don't mind a neon_ purple _but no lavender!"

"I'll keep that in mind," Tin-Tin said wryly.

"I've got orange!" Gordon exclaimed.

"Blue for me," Scott added.

"Can you do florescent white?" Alan asked, frowning.

"Yes, _Sigma_," Virgil snapped. "You can." He turned to Tin-Tin. "Since everyone else wants their old colors, only in bright_, garish, _neonshades, I suppose I'll stay with yellow. But I think it's hideous."

"So big of you, _Delta_," Gordon said sarcastically.

"Omicron." Jeff gave his second youngest a quelling glance and the redhead subsided.

Tin-Tin made some more notes. She looked up at the group. "Now that we've decided on a uniform color, what do you want it to be? A one piece jumpsuit? Shirt and trousers? What kind of trousers? Do you want jackets? What kinds of hats? Do we keep the sashes...?"

At that last suggestion, the Tracys exploded into loud chorus, "No! No sashes!" "Oh, God, get rid of the sashes!" "Uh-uh, no sashes!" "Those sashes were a bad idea." "Don't you dare think of keeping the sashes!"

Jeff sat back, stunned by the vociferousness of his sons' reactions. "And here I thought the sashes looked rather... dashing."

There was a sudden silence, as Jeff's comment sank in. "Uh, C-Commander? Were the sashes _your_ idea?" Alan asked hesitantly.

"Yes, A... I mean, Sigma, they were. I wanted something that set us apart from everyone else but was utilitarian in function as well. Hell, I thought you all_ liked _the sashes."

The four Earthbound Tracy sons looked at each other. "Well," Scott ventured, his face screwed up in an expression of someone who was about to get pounded. "I suppose we could keep the sashes..." He sat back, letting his words trail off as his brothers all glared at him for even making the suggestion.

Jeff shook his head and held up a hand. "No. If you loathe those sashes so much, I won't make you wear them. I just wish someone had told me this before. And when we're done here, I'd like to know just what it is about those sashes that makes them so unpopular."

Virgil now sat back, glancing around at his brothers for support as he said, "Uh, Commander? About the hats...?"

Jeff rolled his eyes. "Don't worry about the hats. I've already decided that they have to go. They really don't serve any function except decoration. They don't keep the rain off your heads, or protect you from falling debris. They don't even keep the sun out of your eyes. The hats as they are now are kaput. There are baseball-style caps ready for distribution. I'm afraid they're all the same color though."

"That's okay. We're glad for the change," Gordon said, relieved that they'd dodged a bullet.

Tin-Tin tapped her stylus on her data pad for attention. "Back to the subject!" she said sharply. "Now, what do you want?"

"Not a jumpsuit," Scott said firmly. "They, uh, tend to, uh, pull up... in the, uh, crotch area..."

The Malaysian girl shook her head slowly as she took more notes. "Okay. No jumpsuit. A two-piece outfit. Shirt and trousers. What kind of trousers?"

"Cargo pants!" John piped up. "Sometimes we need a place to put stuff, like belaying devices, or bandages or such. The pockets on cargo pants would be great!"

"Yeah, and make the bottoms of the pants legs able to zip off at the knee," Gordon added. "That way they're all-weather gear."

"Okay, that sounds feasible. Anything else?"

"We should have different shirts for different climates," Scott said. "Long sleeves for cooler climates or weather, short for warmer."

"Yeah. We could have long-sleeved turtlenecks, and maybe short-sleeved mock turtlenecks as the alternate?" asked Alan. "In the same colors as the trim on the uniforms?"

"Where is that trim going to be, anyway?" Virgil asked. "On the trousers?"

"I can put it as contrast along the edges of the pocket flaps if we go with the cargo pants. Possibly as a stripe down the outer sides of the trousers," Tin-Tin suggested. "I also envisioned a jacket with the trim that would be part of the uniform in all but the hottest climates."

"P-Put in an order for s-sunscreen, uh, Commander," Brains piped up.

Jeff started; the scientist had been so engrossed in whatever he was reading that Jeff had forgotten he was listening, and listening intently. "Uh sure, Rho, sure."

"That sounds feasible," Scott said, keeping to the topic at hand. "A bomber style jacket? In a windbreaker weight, then a heavier fabric for cooler climes, and something warm and lined for snow rescues."

"And waterproofed!" Alan said. "Either that, or design a rain slicker for us. I'll never forget standing in the rain outside that radio tower..."

"This isn't the time to reminisce," Virgil said sharply. He turned to Tin-Tin. "Please, please, let's get rid of those little furry hats! There's got to be a better solution for keeping our heads warm!"

Eleanor folded her arms with a little, "Hrumph!"

Virgil turned his face to her, smiling in a half-pleading manner. "I'm sorry, GM! It's just that those little furry hats were too... cute."

"They kept you warm, didn't they?" she demanded.

"Well, yes..."

Jeff intervened. "Well, if the boys are unhappy wearing those little furry hats, then we'll change them. As he says, there's got to be a better, more manly style out there that will work just as well."

"Theta w-won't want something m-more manly," Brains piped up. "Save a f-furry hat for her."

"Oooooh!" the Tracy brothers said in unison.

If looks could kill, Brains would have been six feet under. Tin-Tin deliberately put down her data pad and stylus on Jeff's desk, and tiptoed over to the sofa. Eleanor handed her a sofa pillow, and gave her a slight nod. Two more quiet steps, and... Brains slammed her in the stomach with a pillow of his own.

"OOOOOH!" was the response from the Tracy brothers. Tin-Tin shrieked! Her eyes grew wide, then narrowed, and she attacked, swinging her pillow with both hands to score one hit after another on Brains's head. Jeff sat back and watched, a slight, amused smile on his face.

"H-Hey!" Brains protested as Tin-Tin ripped the pillow from his hands, then knocked his glasses askew with a well-placed blow. He put down his data pad, handed his glasses to Eleanor (who was leaning away from the fracas) with a polite, "Hold these, please," and with a loud, "En garde!" to Tin-Tin, started to counter attack with another sofa cushion. Scott and Gordon exchanged looks and nodded to each other. Getting up, they separated the combatants, Scott putting himself between Brains and Tin-Tin (and covering his grandmother as well), while Gordon grabbed the girl around the waist and pulled her away from the couch.

"I think that's enough," Jeff said, standing up. The two pillow fighters stopped trying to get at each other, and faced him. Tin-Tin pushed a stray lock of her hair back behind her ear. Scott retrieved Brains's glasses from Eleanor and handed them to the scientist.

"Theta, do you have enough information to get started on this project?" Jeff asked.

She took a deep breath and let it out, then nodded. "I think so, sir."

"Then this meeting is adjourned. Thank you all for your time." He raised a finger as they all prepared to leave. "Please remember, Thunderbird Five's current occupant officially has the code name of 'Sigma'. Please drop the 'Lamda' _entirely_," Jeff warned. "Okay. That's all."

"No furry hats!" Tin-Tin was heard to say as the meeting broke up. Brains just grinned at her as he picked up his data pad and strolled out of the office. Scott and John left through the balcony door, talking about a possible tennis match. Virgil sat down at his piano, running his fingers idly over the keys. Gordon chatted with Tin-Tin as she picked up her data pad and then made her way over to speak briefly with Alan. Jeff offered a hand to Eleanor to help her up from the sofa, but she waved him away, and got up on her own. Gordon wandered out after Scott and John after greeting Alan, and a moment later, Tin-Tin and Eleanor left together.

"Thanks," Alan said as Jeff prepared to shut down the communications between them.

"You're welcome. I hope this name works better for everyone."

"I think it will. I can hardly wait to see the new uniforms."

Jeff smiled at his youngest. "I'm pretty excited about them myself. Even if we are doing away with the sashes."

Alan chuckled. "Have a good day. Thunderbird Five, out."

The room was empty of all save Jeff and Virgil, and as Jeff settled back behind his desk, his artistic son approached.

"Any news from Lady Penelope, Dad?"

Jeff shook his head. "Not yet, son." He looked at the clock on his computer screen. "I expect she's arrived at Unity City and is settling in. She said she'd email as soon as she could."

"Okay, Dad. Thanks." Virgil turned and headed out to the balcony.

Jeff frowned. _I wonder why the sudden concern? And why was he so tetchy during the planning session? Usually he's pretty even tempered. It can't be just about the colors, can it? _He watched Virgil leave and sat back to ponder his artistic son's current behavior.

Eleanor tried to keep pace with Tin-Tin as the two of them left, but the Malaysian girl said, "Please excuse me, Mrs. Tracy. I have an idea that I just have to sketch out."

"Go ahead, child. I'll be along in a few minutes."

"Thank you, Mrs. Tracy!" she said as she picked up her pace and hurried along to the terminus of the monorail.

Eleanor took a deep breath, then another. She could feel a bit of a headache starting. _I must not be quite over this flu, _she thought. _Perhaps I'll go lie down for a bit and see how I feel then. _Turning, she headed for the elevator that would take her down to the lower level and her own quarters.


	6. Chronicles of Conversations

_Author's Note: _It seems that the more I write Cindy Lou's accent, the thicker it gets. As a result, I'm going to try and lighten it up from here on out. My thanks to Hobbeth being a sounding board and for her betareading skills. And to FrankieC and Math Girl for listening and giving advice.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Math Girl: **Glad that you enjoyed the argument. There's still some arguing and tweaking yet to do on the new uniforms. Trouble is, other authors have come up with new designs, and I don't want to step on anyone else's toes. As for Grandma... time will tell.

**Claudette: **No news on Tony Cho in this chapter. Thanks for the idea about the chameleon suit. You'll notice in my remarks to Math Girl, the uniforms have a ways to go before they are complete. I did want bright colors in the uniforms, particularly the shirts, which would be bright neon colors. There would be other more specialized suits, like the fire resistant stuff, flight suits, radiation suits, and space suits wouldn't be black. As far as the websites are concerned, there's a purpose behind it which will be revealed soon.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own them, I'm just writing about them. Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats, are mine. Especially the cats. See my bio for information on copying/hotlinking.

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

Cindy Lou rubbed her eyes. Awakened at four, her heart racing, she found herself gasping for air, the result of a nightmare that had taken over her dreams. She didn't know if she could go back to sleep after the experience, and instead went down to her computer to try and track down the authors or owners of the website that she was most concerned about. 

By now, the press had picked up on both of the stories that the site had mentioned, putting their own slant on them. Almost universally, they praised IR for their care of the tiger, citing its rarity and congratulating IR for seeing the need for preserving such an endangered animal. As for the termite story, the press tried to get solid confirmation of the existence of the program, but found no official who was willing to tell them what they wanted. Cindy Lou snorted a small laugh and shook her head as she read the remarks made by the head of Interpol, Piers Donovan.

"At this point, we have no comment to make on this subject," he flatly stated. The press put its own spin on this statement as well, most of it speculation on what Interpol was trying to hide.

She rolled her eyes. Interpol, like most agencies of any kind, had plenty of information leaks, leaks that were either approved and covert, non-approved but overt, or non-approved and covert. _The only thing that travels faster than light is gossip, _she mused. She yawned, and glanced over at her vidphone. _Maybe I should give Jeff a heads up on this. And let him know about those computer specs I sent along for Brains. _Doing a quick time zone calculation, she frowned. _I hope I can catch him. He may be asleep by now. It would be good for him if he was. Well, if he is, I'll just leave a message and he can get back to me. In any case, Marvin will email him._

Jeff was closing down his computer for the night. He had gotten an email from Penelope, stating that she was safe, settled in, and had an early morning appointment with one of the senators who represented Great Britain in the World Senate. He stood and stretched, feeling the muscles in his shoulders tighten and relax. He was about to leave his desk when the vidphone rang. _Who's calling at this time of night? _Irritated, he thought about letting the answering service take the call, but a quick glance at the number and the name of the town turned his irritation to pleased surprise. He sat down again, leaning back in his chair, and answered the call.

"Hello, Jeff?" Cindy Lou's face appeared, framed by tousled red curls that showed a recent rising from bed. She was also in her modest bathrobe, a fact that did not escape Jeff.

"Well, hello there, stranger," he quipped. A bit of mental math and he continued, "You're up early."

"An' yoah up late," was her quick retort. "Don't you evah go to bed?"

"I was about to when you called."

"Oh, Ah'm sorry Ah called then. Ah can call back latah."

"No, no! It's okay. We can talk now. How's Gardiner, New York?"

"Cold, still. But th' Catskills are lovely. Can't wait t' see them all covered with green. How's life on th' ahland?"

"Quiet for a change. No new 'business trips' to report." He scrutinized her carefully as she yawned. "You're looking better. The bruising is disappearing and the swelling is gone."

She nodded. "Mah shoulder's just a little sore. Ah've stopped usin' th' sling, at least indoors. Hard t' use a mouse when yoah arm's in a sling. Ah 'spect t' ditch it entirely by th' end of th' week."

"I'm glad to see the improvement," he commented. Looking at his clock, he continued. "Well, enough chit-chat. Between the late hour here and the early hour there, I doubt this is a social call. What can I do for you?"

"Well, Ah thought you ought t' know that th' 'bug's' on th' loose, an' it's in Interpol's systems."

He frowned slightly. "I saw the news. How did that happen?"

"Franks or one o' his pals musta opened th' files while tryin' t' verify th' inf'rmation. Ah don' know how they got into Interpol's computer's, but they did." She let a breath out through her nose. "Theah are those who are blamin' yoah 'family business' for th' 'infestation'."

Jeff's frown deepened. "Who?"

She sighed. "There's a website o' two that are at th' forefront o' this. One o' them had a critique o' yoah last 'business trip' hours before th' legitimate press did. An' they had th' news about th' 'infestation' hours before th' press broke th' story."

"Hmph," Jeff remarked, shaking his head. "I should have realized. I know we're not universally accepted or liked but policing the cranks hasn't been a top item on my agenda. Still, it's disturbing that someone's getting news out about us so quickly. Any idea who's responsible or where they're getting their information?"

Lou shook her head. "No. Not yet. Ah've spent mah time since th' nightm... since Ah got up, lookin' into it."

Jeff thought for a moment about what she had almost let out and considered whether or not to press the issue. He decided to do so. "Lou, you were about to say 'nightmare', weren't you?"

She looked away, and when she faced the screen again, she had lowered her gaze and her eyelids. "Yeah. Ah was. But... there's nothin' you can do. It's gonna happen an' Ah just got to deal with it." Meeting his eyes on the screen again, she said, "It's not th' first time Ah've had t' work through somethin' like this, Jeff. It'll take time, but... Ah'll survive."

He gazed at her in silence for a moment, then nodded. "I won't press, but if you need a listening ear, I've had plenty of experience."

She smiled a little. "Ah appreciate th' offer, Jeff." Then she squared her shoulders. "Any news on Franks's whereabouts?"

Now it was Jeff's turn to look away. He looked up at the ceiling as if asking for providential guidance, then he faced her squarely. "Yes. My people think they've run him to ground."

She looked surprised. "Where? Where is he?"

He shook his head. "I'm not going to tell you."

This brought out a frown. "Why not?"

"Because," Jeff began, trying to choose his words carefully. "Because... I'm afraid you'll go after him on your own."

Lou huffed out a breath and gave him an "I can't believe you just said that" look. "Jeff, if there's one thin' Ah learned from mah work with Interpol, it's that a good cop does _not _go into a dangerous situation without back up she can _trust_. An' Jeff? Ah was a _good _cop."

"Still, I'm not telling you," he reiterated. "My people will confirm his location, then deal with him and his cohorts accordingly."

"Ah hope they can do that, Jeff. He's as slipp'ry as an ol' catfish."

"I'll keep that in mind."

There was silence between them, then Cindy Lou said, "Oh! Ah'm sendin' some interestin' computer specs to the man with the glasses. For a duplicate 'Net connection like mah own. Has he put th' bug in yoah antivirus program?"

"Yes, it's there." In fact, it was one of the first things Brains had done on his return from Atlanta.

Cindy Lou relaxed a little. "Good."

"Lou? Could you send me the URLs for those... cranks' sites, too? I'd like to take a look at them."

She regarded him thoughtfully. "Ah su'pose Ah could... as long as you don' get yoah blood pressure up over them. You let me take care o' those sites. This is th' kinda work Ah'm best at. Ah'll send 'em with th' specs. Or Marvin will." She yawned widely, belatedly covering it with a hand. "Well, Ah'd bettah let you go. Yoah bed awaits, an' so does mahne; at least until th' cats come callin' for their breakfast. Ah'll keep lookin' for whoever's behind that website."

"I appreciate it, Lou," Jeff said, smiling softly. "You get some sleep and I'll do the same. Have a good day."

"You have a good night, Jeff. G'bye."

"Goodbye." The conversation ended, and Jeff sat back, absently picking up a stylus and beating a tattoo against his chin. _Anti-IR websites? It was inevitable that things like that would pop up. But I hoped that people... well, I guess I'm an idealist in a lot of ways. _He yawned, dropped the stylus back onto the desktop and levered himself out of his chair. With a final glance at the room, he activated the lift that made his desk rise to the ceiling, turned out the light and headed to bed.

At her own computer, Lou shook her head slowly and yawned again. With a click of her mouse, she powered the machine into a stand-by mode. Looking over at the clock, she thought for a moment. _Might be a better idea to get my run in while the day is early. Then get a shower. I can always nap later. _Nodding to herself, she headed upstairs to her bedroom to change into running clothes.

xxxx

"Hey! When is the maid coming to change the linens?" Franks flippantly asked the household guards that came with his breakfast. He had been locked up for two days. Meals had been served, but no metal cutlery was provided, just a plastic spoon, which wasn't very easy to eat with. Nor were the meals very appetizing since he had a mere ten minutes to bolt them down under the watchful eye of the guards.

From his room he could see the Minister's helijet rise into the air, winging its way toward the sea. "So, where's your boss man going, eh?" he asked between hurried bites. The guards remained impassive. Franks had learned the day before that they were under orders to be silent. He had cursed at them in several different tongues, including the local patois, and though he thought he saw an angry glint in the eye of one of them, he got no other response.

The marginally smaller of the two kept an eye on his watch, and when the mealtime was up, he nodded to the larger man, who yanked the tray away.

"Give my compliments to the chef," Franks quipped sarcastically as the guards left him, locking the door securely behind them. He ran a hand through his hair; at least the room came with a bath and he could tend to his needs. Plus his small reserve of clothing had been laundered while he was still in favor, though his belts had been confiscated, along with anything that might possibly be made into a weapon. So was anything that he might have used to contact the outside world, including the laptop and its link.

He rubbed his stubbled chin. _I could really use a shave. _Looking around his relatively comfortable cell, he tried to remember where he had found the vid device. To him, it was a given that he'd be watched while he was there. So one of the first things he had done was search the room thoroughly. He had found several audio surveillance devices, but only one for vid feed. _We did a **much **more thorough job at Lucinda's,_ he thought derisively. _I wish I knew why there had been so much damn interference on the signal._

Flopping down on the bed again, he put his hands behind his head. _I wonder how long Alvarez will keep me here? Not that I'm complaining; I expected to have been shot by now. The longer he waits, the happier I am. I hope I can think my way out of this. I can't count on his "generosity" forever._

xxxx

"Madam Senator?" The cultured British tones of the secretary to the Honorable Addison Kennicot, Senator representing Great Britain, rang out in the Senator's plush office.

"Yes, Anne?"

"Your nine o'clock appointment has arrived."

"Excellent. Please send her in."

Anne opened the door, and a young woman with dark, nearly black hair glided into the room. Addison studied her very carefully. There was something familiar about the woman, something that reminded her of an old friend from Rowden... She rose and offered her hand to the newcomer.

"Addison Kennicot."

"Alison St. Clair."

Penelope smiled, hiding her surprise at recognizing the woman who rose from behind the teakwood desk. Here was her old friend, Addi, whom she had not seen in several years, not since Addi's graduation from Rowden the year before her own. They had been close once, but had lost touch over the intervening years. _I had forgotten that she had married and what her married name was, _Penelope thought with alarm. _I had no idea that she had gone into politics. That was not her intention when she left Rowden._

For her part, Addison tried hard not to stare at her guest, even though she was sure that she'd seen this woman before. Instead, she offered the lady a chair and sat back down behind her desk. "What can I help you with, Ms. St. Clair?"

"The Prime Minster is planning a visit to Unity City in the near future, with hopes of addressing the combined houses of the World Government," Penelope began, aware of the scrutiny she was under. "He has sent me ahead to put things in motion for that visit. I need your help in contacting the appropriate people." She leaned toward Addison as if conveying a confidence. "This is my first assignment of this sort and though I am familiar with the names of the officials I need to see, I felt that an... introduction from your office would help me along. Establish my credentials, so to speak."

Addison nodded. "Ah, I understand. Who is it you wish to see first?"

Penelope removed a PDA from her briefcase. "Let me see. Ah, yes. First, I must see the secretaries in charge of chambers to schedule the visit." She glanced up at the Senator. "It will be at least six months from now, if not later, depending on the legislative schedule." A slim finger made the page scroll up for her, then she said, "And once the date is set, I am to see the Minister of Security to make arrangements for Mr. Trevelyan's safety. The hospitality secretary and Congressional Press Secretary would be next, I think, to set in motion the reception and the printing of various forms. Also the televid and Internet coverage."

"Hmm. The secretaries in charge of chambers should be no problem; I shall have my secretary call ahead for you. The Minister of Security is in mourning, and has been for weeks. However, you may speak with his secretary, Mr. Ramirez. Perhaps he can help. I fear that the Press Secretary would be out of the office today, also. It is his golf day." Addison shrugged slightly. "I shall have her call the hospitality secretary for you as well, but do not expect an appointment with them for today. They are very busy."

"I am sure they are," Penelope murmured. "If I could see the secretaries, those in charge of chambers and Mr. Ramirez, sometime today, I should be very grateful."

"I will see what I can do. Would you leave a number with my secretary where you may be reached?"

"Of course." Penelope took out a business card, engraved with the symbols of England, and introducing her as Alison St. Clair, from the office of the Prime Minister. She also pulled out a slim pen and underlined a phone number. "I am staying at the Embassy. This is my satellite phone number, should you need to get in touch with me yourself. I will leave a copy with your secretary." She held out the card, and realized that Addison was staring at her, a look of intense concentration on her dark face. "Is there a problem, Madam Senator?"

Addison shook herself. "Oh! Please excuse me. I didn't mean to stare. You look very much like an old friend of mine. Perhaps you know her. Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward."

Penny assumed an expression of thoughtfulness. "I think I may have heard of her. Doesn't she model for François Lemaire?"

Addison smiled slightly, and nodded. "Yes, I believe she does."

"Then I have heard of her, and seen her picture. I must admit, no one has ever compared me to her before."

"Ah. If you were blond, you would look very much like her." Addison took a deep breath and let it out, then smiled widely. "Well. I shall have my secretary make those calls and she will get back to you. If there is anything else I can do to help while you are in Unity City, please let me know."

"Thank you, Madam Senator, for your time and your effort on the Prime Minister's behalf," Penelope said quickly. "I shall await your secretary's calls."

The two ladies stood and shook hands again. Addison walked her guest to the door and with a final farewell, the two parted.

Penelope moved as decorously as she could to the elevators and down to the lobby level, opening her satellite phone and speed-dialing a number. "Parks? Please bring the car around."

Addison walked over to as small table, where she kept a carafe of spring water and two crystal glasses. _I cannot fathom what you are up to, Penny, but you could not fool me, your old friend, no matter how hard you tried. _She sipped the water, looking out the window of her office to watch her recent visitor get into a sleek, silver Rolls. _No matter what you are doing, I am sure you are still on the side of the angels and His Majesty's government, and I shall do all in my power to help. We Rowden girls must stick together!_

In the Rolls, Lady Penelope let out a deep breath. "That was close, Parks. Too close."

" 'Ow so, mil..." Parker paused before coming up with the appropriate word for their cover. "Ay mean, madam?"

"The senator I visited turned out to be an old friend from Rowden. I hope she didn't recognize me and if she did, I sincerely hope she keeps it to herself."

"Ay 'ope so, too, madam. Ay 'ope so, too."

xxxx

"Finally!" Baye Mohenu shouted. He looked over at his disheveled and hollow-eyed companions. "I've quarantined the beasties!"

Light applause broke out in the room as the computer techs, who had been recruited one by one to deal with the fast-moving, fast-multiplying termite, sat back in their chairs. Some stood and looked over the walls of Mohenu's cubicle, congratulating him. MacPherson did a quick check on her comrade's work and cracked her first smile in hours, then she stood up stiffly and joined him in his tiny office. "Yes you most certainly did it, Baye," she said, holding out her hand. "Congratulations. Now to copy the program as evidence and exterminate the thing."

He took her hand and flashed a bright smile. "Then we can tell Mr. Donovan the good news," replied Mohenu.

MacPherson nodded, then took a sip of her soft drink. "After that, I'll probably go home and sleep for twelve hours straight. Then back here to assess the damage and figure out what files we have to pull from the back up archives."

Several people groaned at her proclamation. "Hey, it has to be done," she said with a shrug. "I just hope that a copy of this thing didn't find it's way into..."

There was dead silence, then the people who had been hanging around scurried back to their cubicles. Mohenu sighed heavily, and turned back to his computer.

Up in his corner office, a weary and short-tempered Piers Donovan was having a tough interrogation via vidphone.

"But, Mr. Donovan, I swear it wasn't me!" said the balding, middle-aged man on the other end of the connection.

"The I & M people here tracked it down to _your_ log-in, Watts!" he growled. "You still haven't given me a good explanation as to how someone else could have logged on as you and planted that termite."

His intercom buzzed, and he answered it as Watts sputtered, trying to convince the head of Interpol that he was innocent. "Yes?"

"Neussel on line three."

"I'll take it."

The vidphone's screen split, and Ilsa Neussel's picture appeared on it. She was older, with short cropped gray hair and a long face that had a perpetually sour look to it. Donovan put an earphone with a mike in one ear and listened.

"Neussel here. Watts's alibi checks out. His credit cards show the purchases he indicated and the waitress remembered him because his kids were acting up and he was constantly trying to control them."

"Thanks, Ilsa."

"One more thing. Myles is nowhere to be found. I had a team out to her last known address and the house was empty. The neighbors said she moved and left no forwarding address. I'm sure it had something to do with the home invasion that occurred recently."

"Hmm. Keep working on it. I'd like her input on Cho."

"Right. I'll work things from this end, but you might want to be the one to contact the other victim in the matter. He might know where to find her."

"Who was that?"

"Jefferson Tracy."

The head of Interpol frowned. "_The_ Jefferson Tracy?"

"Yes." Neussel looked at her PDA. "He told the locals he was visiting 'an old friend'."

Donovan was silent for a moment, then nodded. "I'll deal with him personally. I've got to get back to Watts. Thank you, Ilsa."

"You're welcome." The line went silent, and Donovan turned back to Watts to find that the man had also gone silent, his face covered with sweat. "Well, good news for you, Watts. Your alibi has been verified. Now, tell me: who paid you for your password?"

xxxx

"Señor Ramirez will see you, now, Señorita St. Clair." The pretty receptionist smiled at Lady Penelope as she rose from her seat and led the Englishwoman down a short hallway to a set of double doors. Opening one side she introduced her companion in Spanish, then motioned for her to enter.

"Gracias," Penelope responded with a smile and a gracious nod. The receptionist returned the nod, and went back to her post.

"Welcome, Señorita. I am Fernando Rafael Ramirez, secretary to his Excellency, the Minister of Security," said the man, coming out from behind his desk and offering her his hand.

"Alison St. Clair." As she took his hand, she studied him carefully. He wasn't much taller than she was; he was fit and looked sleek in his designer suit. He had a well-tanned, weathered face that made him look older than his fifty years. His dark hair was slicked back from his receding hairline. He smiled, but the smile never reached his equally dark eyes. They made small talk and he bade her sit down in one of his comfortable leather chairs. He sat across the desk from her, his hands steepled at the fingertips.

"So, Señorita, how may I be of assistance? I understand that you wish to arrange security for the Prime Minister's visit?"

"Yes," Penelope began, feeling a bit uncomfortable with his gaze on her. "I have consulted with the secretaries of chambers this morning, and the Prime Minister will be visiting in nine months' time..." She shook her head. "I am _so_ sorry, but I was instructed by my employer to speak to His Excellency himself..."

Ramirez's smile faltered a bit, and his hands came down, fisted at first, then he laced his fingers together and sat up straighter. "I am also sorry, señorita, but that is quite impossible. His Excellency is seeing no one. He has been in mourning for his family. I am afraid I will have to suffice."

Penelope made a little "O" of her mouth, and put a hand up to it. "Oh, the poor man! I had no idea! What happened?"

His smile got wider, and his voice took on a resigned but sympathetic tone. "Señora Alvarez and the niños were flying home to Columbia when their helijet went down in the Gulf of Mexico."

"Oh! Now I remember!" Penelope said, looking thoughtful, "But that was well over a year ago. Surely His Excellency would be done with public mourning..."

"No, he is not," Ramirez said, a tad sharply. He softened his tone. "Forgive me. His Excellency's loss weighs heavily on all of his staff."

"Of course," Penelope murmured. Then she sighed heavily. "I am afraid we are at an impasse, Señor. My explicit instructions were for me to consult His Excellency _personally_. I should very much dislike to return to my employer without having done so."

"Why does the Prime Minister insist on your speaking to His Excellency?" Ramirez asked, puzzled.

She looked at him coolly. "For security reasons, of course. I apologize, Señor, but I do not know you any more than you know me. Nor does the Prime Minister know you. However, he_ does _know His Excellency. The Prime Minister would much rather entrust his safety to His Excellency and then allow him to decide what portions of the plans you should or should not know." She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a folder, one marked with an electronic seal to show to him. "Even _I _do not know the details of what my employer is asking for in regards to his security. This is between him and your employer. I am in charge of setting the plans in motion... and delivering this only to the hand of Señor Alvarez." She paused then said in a slightly pleading tone. "You do see my predicament... do you not?"

Ramirez was simmering, but he forced himself to be polite. "I believe I do, Señorita. I shall convey your message to His Excellency. He will not return to Unity City until he deems his period of mourning to be over, but... he may invite you to his home. I shall call you to inform you of His Excellency's decision. However, I make no promises of an invitation, and ask you to have your employer reconsider his position."

Penelope sighed with relief, and smiled. "I shall. When may I expect your call?"

"By the end of this day," he replied, almost dismissive. "You may leave your information with the receptionist."

"Thank you, Señor Ramirez, for your time," she said, sounding eager and holding out her hand.

He glanced up and saw her outstretched hand and, as if suddenly realizing he needed to put on at least a show of politeness, stood and shook it once. Then he opened the door for her. Penelope was sure that if he dared to slam the door behind her, he would have. _But all the social niceties must be obeyed, no matter how internally angry you may be, _she thought as she stopped to make sure the receptionist had her business card with all of the pertinent numbers.

As she descended in the elevator, she lifted her satellite phone to her ear and called for Parker. He was waiting when she emerged from the Ministry of Security's building and handed her into the Rolls.

"Where to, madam?"

"The Embassy, Parks. I must set up a meeting with our fellow agents and coordinate the information we have already. I may be bearding the lion in his den, and I shall need some back up."

Parker's eyes gleamed. "Very good... madam," he said as he pulled out to return his employer to her quarters at the British Embassy.

Ramirez sat back behind his desk, going over the previous conversation in his mind. Then he reached for his vidphone and made a call. When the connection was established, he said, "Your Excellency. We may have a problem."


	7. Detailed Descriptions

_Author's Note: _More exposition, I'm afraid. But there's action to come if you'll bear with me. My thanks to Hobbeth being a sounding board and for her betareading skills. And to Math Girl for listening and giving advice.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**mcj: **Thanks for the good words about the story and the dialogue. I'm glad you've had a chance to read it. Yes, there's a good deal of Lady Penelope in here; there must be when there is danger and intrigue. I am truly flattered by your estimation of my talent. And here is the next chapter... I hope it suits!

**Math Girl: **We'll find out if Penelope is up to the task, but she's going to find it a bit harder than she thinks. As for Jeff and the boys, they should appear soon. Little vignette in this chapter, anyway.

**Claudette: **Well, my cats wouldn't be staring at me for food, they'd be pestering to be let out as my computer desk is next to an outside door. For feeding them I have this creature called a _daughter_... I think Lou probably closed the door on them. You have an interesting thought about His Excellency, very interesting. But then all of your ideas about His Excellency have been thoughtful and interesting. I'm afraid you'll just have to wait to see which ones, if any, are right. You're quite right in one aspect: from Penelope's past antics, Lou would not have tagged her as a "good cop". But, as you'll find in this chapter, Penelope has learned a few things...

_Disclaimer: _I don't own them, I'm just writing about them. Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats, are mine. Especially the cats. See my bio for information on copying/hotlinking.

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

Jim Franks was startled out of a doze when the door to his "cell" opened. The two guards who had been bringing him his food were standing there and one said in a thick accent, "Come. His Excellency awaits." 

"Let me get my shoes on," he groused. He looked up at the guards, and fingered his chin, then tucked in his shirt. "I hope he doesn't mind a couple of days' worth of beard."

"Hurry. His Excellency awaits," the guard repeated, scowling. His partner hefted a gun to show Franks that there was no escaping them.

Franks stood up, shook down his trouser leg, then smiled cockily. "Okay. Let's go."

They took him through the house instead of through the courtyard, but soon enough Franks was back in Alvarez's office and facing the Minister of Security. He was wearing a light beige suit today, and still had the armband on his sleeve. He was also puffing on a cigar, taking his time as he savored it. He did not turn around when Franks was brought in.

"You are probably wondering why you still live, Señor," Alvarez began. "At last, my computer technicians have been able to destroy the termite. Unfortunately, the backup files are also contaminated. So I have lost all of the information collected from various sources on International Rescue."

"I told you, I can get the information from Lucinda Myles. I know her; she wouldn't have destroyed it," Franks said, hoping he didn't sound like he was pleading.

"I am still considering that offer. However, I have another use for you," Alvarez said. He turned and stepped over to his desk. Picking up a small data disk, he handed it to Franks. "A task that will show me if you are fit to live."

Franks took the disk and eyed it with suspicion. "What do you want me to do?"

"This is the transcript of a conversation my secretary had with a lovely young lady earlier today. There is vid of the two of them talking with each other as well as of her entering and leaving the building." Alvarez took a deep puff of his cigar and blew it in Franks's face. "She insists on seeing me personally. I am considering inviting her out here for dinner and perhaps an overnight stay. But I want to know everything about her before I do so." Alvarez smiled, slightly. "The computer has been returned to your room. You were in research and surveillance while with Interpol. You have two hours to discover everything possible about Señorita Alison St. Clair. If I am satisfied with your work, you live. If not, you die." He motioned to the guards. "Take him away."

Franks gave the guards no trouble as they escorted him back to his room. His mind was filled, planning what angles he should take, what sites he could use. He glanced down at the disk, then as he looked up, he realized he was in his room. The computer was there, as had been promised. _I could send a shout for help... but no one would be able to pull me out in a mere two hours. I guess I'd better do what the man wants. _He slid the disk in, and began to watch the interaction between the woman and Ramirez. While he watched, he wrote down her name: Alison St. Clair. _Okay, honey. Let's hope you're easy enough to find._

Two hours later, the guards came for him again. He smiled at them as he took the disk from the drive. Slipping it into his shirt pocket, he put his hands into his trouser pockets and sauntered down to Alvarez's office. This time, Alvarez was actually sitting at his desk, reading a book of some sort. His Excellency put a slim strip of gold in the crease to mark his place, and put the book aside. He did not gesture for Franks to take a seat, but rose from his desk and removed another cigar from the humidor. Clipping off one end, he lit it, and walked to the windows on the opposite side of the room, windows that looked out onto the courtyard.

"What have you discovered about the señorita?"

Franks's smile didn't falter. "I think she's a fake."

Alvarez did not turn. "And why do you think this?"

"I managed to slip into the Prime Minister's database to access her personnel file. From there, I checked her address, her phone, her school records, former employment, tax records, everything I could about her. Her name appears on the school's rolls, but there are no other academic records beyond that. No special awards, no sports records, even though the personnel data indicates there should be. I checked her former employers; two of them have her name in their files, and basic information, but no employee evaluations or other documentation of that sort. Plus, some of the employment dates don't jive. The other records are more detailed... should I go on?"

"What are you trying to say?"

"That this Alison St. Clair is probably a cover, one done in a hurry, too. The basics are covered, but if you dig deeper, you can't always find the expected supporting documentation. I suppose that MI7 or whoever created it missed a few of the finer details."

"They did not foresee an in-depth background check."

"In my estimation, no, they didn't. At least, not the kind that I can do."

"Excellent." Alvarez continued to smoke his cigar. "Now, how to deal with..."

"There's more."

Alvarez spun around, his face impassive, but his eyes full of both anger and surprise. He motioned to one of the guards, "Paulo."

Franks stumbled back as the larger of the two guards backhanded him across the face. He fell to the floor, fingering his jaw, and looking up at Alvarez with fury.

"Do not interrupt me again!" Alvarez ordered, punctuating his words with a finger speared in Franks's direction. Then he turned back to the window.

The mercenary glanced from Alvarez to each of his caretakers in turn, then levered himself off the floor. Wiping off the blood from the corner of his mouth, he squared his shoulders and buried his ego. "I... apologize for my rudeness. It will not happen again."

"See that it does not," the minister commented. "Now, tell me what else you have found."

'The car. The vid picked up a corner of the car she got into. It's a Rolls Royce, a custom model with six wheels. I started to look into it. No more than fifteen of that model were made. I would have looked into it further, but I ran out of time. Oh, one more thing. She has a chauffeur. You can see his feet as he opens the door for her."

That got the minister's attention. He turned back to Franks again, a calculating look in his eyes. "A chauffeur? How fascinating."

"Yeah. My question is: how does a public servant, even one who works for the Prime Minister of England, afford a custom Rolls Royce _and_ a chauffeur?"

Alvarez walked slowly up to Franks, passed him by, then sat down behind his desk. Franks turned and approached.

"Is there more?"

"Not that I could dig up in the time allotted."

Alvarez smiled slightly, gazing off into the distance, seemingly oblivious to Franks, the guards, even the window, as he murmured, "So, our Señorita St. Clair is a cipher. Not quite what she seems to be." Turning to Franks, he said, "You have done well. You will live. I will pay you half of your original fee and I am still considering your offer about the Myles woman. Paulo, Pablo! Show Señor Franks back to his room, and return to him the things that were confiscated... with the exception of his gun. You are in my favor, Señor. You may have the run of the house and as much of the cay as you wish. And, you must join me for dinner. After all, I will be having a guest."

xxxx

Scott looked up into the azure sky as the familiar silhouette of the mail plane zoomed over the pool, circling the island one last time before making its approach to the landing strip at the bottom of the cliff. He went back to his magazine, _Aeronautics Today_, scrolling down the page of his data pad and reading the article about his latest jet design. There was a picture of him standing next to the LT-1, and he gazed fondly at the sleek lines of the jet, designed not for the businessman in a hurry, but for the family on the go. He had seen the glut in luxurious SSTs destined for the corporate market, and decided to go in a different direction, designing a plane that was fast enough to get where you wanted to go in record time, but with the amenities necessary for keeping a sizeable family occupied while you got there.

The balance of size, speed, and power had been a tricky one, but he had managed it. Of course, once he had, a pragmatic Virgil had pointed out that few families of this day and age had more than two children, and that the cost of the jet would be prohibitive for those families who could really use it. Not to mention that, although piloting had become a skill almost as essential as driving in some parts of the world, it wasn't a universally required one... yet. Points that the less-than-flattering article reiterated, though it grudgingly gave him points for his innovation in pursuing the market and in the balance he had achieved. They projected that the jet might become the darling of sports stars or small musical groups. Truth to tell, he didn't care. He hadn't really designed it for the market; he'd designed it for his family.

"Scott!" Jeff's shout filtered down to the pool area from the balcony.

Getting up, Scott turned to face the house and his father. "Yes, sir?"

"Tin-Tin needs some help down at the airstrip. Please go give her a hand."

"Sure, Dad," the oldest son replied. He saved the article, tucked the data pad under an arm, and trotted over to the garage. It was concealed to some extent, not to keep it secret but to help it blend in with the beauty of the island and of the villa's setting. A hovercar sat waiting, ready for use at the touch of a button. Dropping his data pad on the passenger seat, Scott powered the hovercraft up, eased it out of the storage area, and whizzed down the packed pumice path that would bring him to the airstrip and the beach.

Juan, their regular mailman, was unloading several long, flat parcels from the cargo hold of his puddle jumper. They were of an awkward size and Tin-Tin was having trouble fitting them onto the back of the small ATV she had brought down. Scott jumped out and gave Juan a jaunty salute.

"Hey there, Scott!" the short, smiling, sun-bronzed man called. "I guess you're here to lend this lovely lady a hand, eh?"

"Yes, I am."

"Good!" Tin-Tin called. "Come over here!" Scott approached and she bade him, "Hold out your arms."

Scott did so, holding them out as brackets while Tin-Tin piled box upon box upon box into his grasp. He was amazed at how light most of them were. Once she had piled them up to the level of his nose, she sent him over to the hovercar to unload his burden. When he returned, she stacked the rest of the boxes in his arms and sent him on his way. As he dropped them onto the back seat of the hover car, he and the other two were startled by the opening of the small hangar door that was built into the cliff. This doorway was used primarily for the smaller aircraft in the family fleet, allowing them access to the cavern beyond. It was as much camouflage as the cliff face itself, giving a reason for the airstrip to be positioned where it was and answering any potential questions about hangar facilities on an island that could only be reached by air or sea.

The door rumbled open only a few feet, and Brains ducked beneath its edge to approach the mail plane. It slid back down behind him, closing with a soft thud.

"Just the man I needed to see!" Juan exclaimed. "I have an express parcel that needs to be signed for by you and you alone. I'll even need a thumbprint for this one!"

"Ah!" Brains said, rubbing his hands together. "I-I've been, uh, w-waiting for this!" He signed the data pad that Juan held out, and pressed his thumb to a small square on it. "T-There you go."

"And here it is," Juan said. He pulled out a plastic cube, made from one of the more indestructible polymers available from the packaging industry. With a swipe of a computer wand, he uploaded Brains's scanned thumbprint, then downloaded it to the lock on the cube. "All set." He turned to Scott. "Just a minute and I'll get you your regular mail."

Scott laughed. "As if this wasn't enough!"

Juan chuckled, and pulled out a small pile of envelopes, many of them addressed to Eleanor, and some larger ones addressed to Jeff. Even with much of the world's commerce done over the Internet, there were still some legal documents that needed actual and not virtual signatures.

"Okay, folks! I think that's it," Juan said as he slammed his cargo hatch closed. "Have fun, Tin-Tin! See you all again tomorrow!" Scott and the others said their goodbyes as he hopped into his plane, turned it around, then taxied down the airstrip and back out over the sea.

"So, what's in the boxes, Tin-Tin?" Scott asked. Brains had put his cube carefully into the back of the hovercar and offered to take the ATV up to the villa for Tin-Tin, an offer she accepted.

Tin-Tin smiled widely. "Penelon."

"Really? So soon?" He hazarded a quick glance back at the stack of boxes. "So much?"

"Yes. Penelope had him send a variety of fabrics to her and she had them shipped on to me. Did you know that Penelon can mimic almost any type of cloth? Even leather! I'm going to experiment with the fabric once I have some designs down. Then we can see what parts of the new uniform will work." She turned to look back at the cube. "I wonder what Brains got that required so many security precautions?"

"I don't know, but whatever it is, I'm sure he'll tell us."

xxxx

"Thank you all for coming to this meeting," Lady Penelope began, looking around at her fellow International Rescue agents. She was ensconced in a comfortable wingchair in Renée Baptiste's living room. To her right was Parker, and beside him sat Peter Riordan. Next to Peter sat a large blonde named Brigitte Andersen. Her long, plaited hair was sun-streaked and her skin was well-tanned; in form, she could have passed for one of the Valkyrie. She was a member of Unity City's firefighting force and knew the city as well as Peter did. Beside her, as if to contrast the two women, sat the dark and petite Renée Baptiste, and at Renée's side sat pale, dark haired Dr. Viktor Solokov, MD, a recent arrival from the Ukraine who practiced medicine in one of Unity City's hospitals. His security clearance gave him access to many of the important dignitaries that worked in or visited the World Government capital.

Penelope gazed at each operative again. They were almost strangers, despite all covertly working for the same organization. Each of them knew a member of the Tracy family, or had been vouched for by Brains or Tin-Tin. But they didn't all necessarily know _her_, nor she them. This made Lady Penelope feel a bit nervous; after all, she would be entrusting her life and safety to these strangers as they went on with this plan.

Taking a deep breath, she started to outline the situation. "As you know, there is a rumor, a strong but unconfirmed rumor, that someone in the World Government is plotting to blackmail our covert employer. It has been discovered that Interpol was part of this, collecting information that could be used in this plot. The collected information fell, providentially, into friendly hands, and now our commander is aware of it. The person who received the information created a decoy, an item for which she was attacked. The trail of the decoy led here, to Unity City, and through the stellar work of Agent 53, the people who have the decoy have been traced to the Minister of Security."

She paused, and took a sip of the tea that Renée had provided. "I am currently undercover, working to confirm the whereabouts of both the decoy and one of the people who took it, and to discover, if I can, exactly what this blackmail threat consists of and who may be behind it. I have been invited to the Minister of Security's home, situated on his private cay in the Exumas, and will be traveling there tomorrow evening with his secretary, Mr. Ramirez. What I need from each of you is back up. I cannot take my chauffeur, for obvious reasons, so I shall be quite at their mercy if I do not have someone upon whom I can call should I get into trouble. I expect that someone to be you. Not all of you at once, certainly, but as many as we feel can handle the situation. Parker?"

Parker stood and cleared his throat. He pointed a remote at the tiny projection device that sat on Renée's coffee table and a holographic image appeared in mid-air. It was a map of the long stretch of small islands and cays known as the Exumas.

"Wiv infermation provided by our 'h'aye in th' sky' as t'were, we have co-or-din-ates of th' Minister's cay." The image picked out one of the small islands, the third from the end nearest New Providence, and enlarged that spot of land, showing the island in a sharp, three-dimensional picture that rotated. The green of the tropical forest and the point of the mountain that made up the islet were visible. Then an area on the cay was circled, and the image again zoomed in. Now buildings could be seen. " 'Is h'Excellency 'as several buildings makin' h'up h'a compound of sorts." As Parker began to name the structures, colored dots appeared to mark them. "This 'ere h'appears t' be h'a generatin' plant, whayle h'over 'ere is th' main 'ouse. H'Accordin' t' our sources, this h'over 'ere is h'a barracks of some kaynd, providin' 'ousing fer h'a number of guards. Th' plan h'is t' take 'er Ladyship's car and go..."

"Her Ladyship's car?" asked Brigitte a puzzled frown wrinkling up her smooth face.

Penelope stepped in. "My car has many special features, hydrofoil capability being one of them."

"Oh!" replied a surprised Brigitte. "I look forward to seeing this... car."

"H'An see h'it ye shall," Parker said with a grim smile. "H'As Ay wuz sayin', a small par-tay, dressed in black, would take 'Er Ladyship's car an'... sail out t' 'ere at nayte," another colored dot, this one pink, settled in the waters of the lagoon not far from the house, "where we can wait fer 'Er Ladyship an' listen in h'on th' con-ver-sashun. H'If 'er Ladyship h'is in h'any danger, then we can move in an' come t' 'er rescue." He stopped to look around the room. "H'Any questions?"

There was a sudden silence, then Viktor hesitantly asked, "How many people will the car hold?"

"H'A max-i-mum of fayve," Parker explained.

Renée shook her head. "I am too old for this. I will stay behind and monitor communications, and see to it that if you need extra help, you will have it."

Parker nodded. Peter raised his hand. "Will we have any protective garments? Kevlar or that sort of thing?"

"Yus. Kevlar vests," was the reply. "But ye'll 'ave t' provide yer h'own black clothes."

"Will... will we be using guns?" Viktor asked apprehensively. As all eyes turned to him, he motioned with his hands. "I hate guns."

"Then perhaps you should stay with the car, Agent 112, should there be any need for a landing party," Lady Penelope said softly. "If there is such a circumstance, we would require... for lack of a better term.. a 'getaway driver'."

The other operatives smiled or chuckled, even Parker weighed in with his heavy, "Heh, heh, heh." Viktor smiled, and nodded his head. "I can do that."

"Good man. In answer to your question, yes, International Rescue standard pistols will be issued. I would tell you to bring your own ordnance, but we must minimize the risk of being discovered. As IR agents, your lives could be in jeopardy should you be traced back to some stray bullet." Penelope gazed at each agent in turn. "If you are not versed in marksmanship, either with pistols or rifles, please tell me now."

Brigitte cleared her throat. "I am much more comfortable with rifles than with pistols, Lady Penelope."

"Noted, and thank you, Agent 87, for your honesty. Parker will be sure that you have the ordnance you are most familiar with."

"When does this all go down?" Peter asked.

"I am to meet Mr. Ramirez at 1730 hours to be flown by helijet to the cay. You will meet with Parker at these coordinates at 1800 hours. It is a secluded cove where driving a car into the sea should not be noticed."

The operatives chuckled again, and made note of the rendezvous point. Penelope put up a finger. "You must not reach the waters around cay until it is fully dark. Then the car will be less likely to be detected. Approach the cay only if necessary; I have a feeling that this Minister of Security takes his own security very seriously."

"Pray fer clouds," Parker said quietly. "H'A full moon'll bollix h'everythin'."

"Right." Penelope paused. "Any other questions?"

Peter put up a finger. "What will you do if the bastard who killed the two people at the warehouse is there?"

Penelope sat quietly for a minute as the other watched her expectantly. Then she looked Peter in the eye. "I will first notify our commander. Then, I shall follow his orders. It may mean abducting the man from the Minister's home and delivering him to the police. We shall see."

"I'll be happy to help you with that job," Peter said fervently. "I'll not soon forget the bodies I found."

The London agent sighed. "Again, any other questions?" There was a general shaking of heads. "Then take your timing from Parker. I will see you all upon my safe return from the Minister's home... if not sooner."

xxxx

Piers Donovan sighed as he packed his briefcase. It had been a long couple of days for him and his people. The computer techs had finally isolated the termite that was eating its way through any data on International Rescue, but not before it had managed to write itself onto the backup files and now those files were just as corrupted. The officer whose name and password were the portal to the invasion was now on desk duty pending an Internal Affairs investigation. Donovan had a suspicion that the inquiry would turn up nothing and that the officer, Watts, would be cleared. He wanted very much to talk to Lucinda Myles, not only about Anthony Cho, but about some other information that had come to his attention involving a downed plane that she had been piloting. But to speak to her, he had to find her. And finding her was proving difficult.

He had finally telephoned Tracy Industries' New York headquarters, hoping to speak to their founder and CEO. But the people who he spoke to there told him that Mr. Tracy was not in the office, and would not give out a personal number, not even to the head of Interpol. The very nice office assistant did say she would forward any message he cared to leave, and he left one, asking Mr. Tracy to return his call. So now he was waiting on two calls, one from Jefferson Tracy and one from his officers in Singapore, who were going to question Tony Cho.

The vidphone rang, and Donovan muttered a vague curse. His secretary had gone home hours before, so he was stuck either answering the phone himself, or letting his service take care of it. Thinking it might be Jefferson Tracy, he decided to pick up the receiver.

"Donovan, Interpol. Who is calling?"

The officer on the other end was startled to hear his ultimate boss pick up the phone. "Uh, Mr. Donovan, this is Chu Wong from the Singapore branch. You asked for a team to question Tony Cho. I'm on that team."

Donovan sat down. "Nice to hear from you, Wong. What news do you have?"

Officer Wong squirmed. "Bad news, I'm afraid." He looked down at the body of the twenty-something man sprawled out on the floor of the high-priced flat. The hole in the man's forehead was very clear amidst the strands of long black hair splayed out over the blood-soaked carpet. "Tony Cho is dead. He's been murdered."


	8. The Plots Thicken

_Author's Note: _The action is almost set to begin... but my posting may slow down as I try to start living a diabetic lifestyle. My apologies. My thanks to Hobbeth for being a sounding board and for her betareading skills. And to Math Girl for listening and giving advice.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Math Girl: **Do they have a common enemy? Possibly. More to come.

**mcj: **I'm glad that you're enjoying the intrigue and that my protocol rings true. Who killed Tony Cho? I'm afraid you'll have to wait for a little bit longer.

**FrankieC: **Ah, yes. The old school chum. Even Lady Penelope has friends outside of her set and we've met one of them. Too bad she lost touch with Addison. And as for Virgil, you'll have to wait and see what his reaction is to the whole thing.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own them, I'm just writing about them. Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats, are mine. Especially the cats. See my bio for information on copying/hotlinking.

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

"So, Brains?" Scott asked as they sat down to dinner. "What's in that crate you got today?" 

"Ah... uh... another s-security measure," Brains replied, automatically pulling Tin-Tin's chair out for her. "W-We discussed locator ch-chips. I, uh, ordered some. I am prepared to i-implant them this, uh, evening."

"Implant them?" John asked skeptically as he performed the same courtesy for his grandmother. "What will that entail?"

"A l-local anesthetic and, uh, an injection. You can ch-choose the place where you want me to i-implant it," the engineer/medic explained. He held up a warning finger. "B-But the _gluteus maximus_ is, uh, off-limits!"

"In other words, Brains, you don't want us mooning you," Gordon quipped.

The Tracys laughed, and Brains chuckled along with them, "Yes, exactly. And if you t-try, you'll f-find it hard to, uh, sit down after I'm through w-with you."

"How are you going to handle Tin-Tin?" Virgil asked.

"With kid gloves, I'm sure," Scott riposted.

"M-Mrs. Tracy will be keeping a sharp eye on me," Brains admitted. "As w-will Tin-Tin as I give Mrs. Tracy her, uh, locator."

Eleanor glanced sharply at him. "Land sakes, Brains. I didn't know I was going to get one."

"Mr. T-Tracy's orders, I'm afraid," came the sheepish reply.

"Jeff? What are you thinking?" Eleanor said, shaking her head. She glared at the figure across the table from her. "I don't need one of those contraptions! It's not like I'm going to go out getting myself into trouble."

Jeff looked up from his data pad, and said mildly. "I think you do, Mother. If there was ever any kidnap attempt..."

"Who's going to kidnap an old woman like me?" Eleanor interrupted. "I'm not worth much to anybody."

"That's where you're wrong, Grandma," John said, leaning over in his nearby seat to give her a kiss on the cheek. "You're worth the world to us."

Jeff put the data pad down as Kyrano handed him a bowl of salad. "Thank you, Kyrano." He turned his gaze back to his mother. "John has it right. And you're a Tracy. All anyone has to do is connect us and there would be thoughts of a pretty high ransom without a whole lot of trouble." He passed the bowl to Scott.

"Yeah, Grandma. Remember the Duchess of Royston? She was kidnapped simply because of her painting," Scott added. "Those guys tried to kill her. If Penelope hadn't given her a St. Christopher brooch, they would have succeeded."

"The Duchess of Royston was a silly old woman," Eleanor replied. "I, on the other hand, am not. I would give any would-be kidnapper a heap of trouble."

"I'm sure you would, Mother," Jeff replied, a small smile playing around his lips. "Still, my decision stands. Everyone on base is getting one, including you and Kyrano. I'll probably require Penelope and Parker to have them as well."

John dished up some salad for himself from the bowl Gordon had handed him, then he passed the bowl to Eleanor. "What's up with the data pad, Dad?

"I'm sorry about bringing it to the table. But I have a call to return and I want to see when the time zones will favorable to do it. I want to make it look like I'm calling from New York, but I don't want to be up all hours."

"A call? To whom?" Eleanor asked sharply.

Jeff frowned. "Why do you want to know, Mother?"

"I was just...curious. You don't usually make such a fuss over what time it is when you make a call," she replied, her tone moderating as she dished some salad for herself, and passed the bowl to Virgil.

There was a pause, then Jeff said, "You're right. I don't. But for this call I'd rather make it look like I'm anywhere but here." His eyes narrowed. "If you think I'm calling Lou, Mother, you're wrong. This is a business call."

"Did I say anything about Lucinda?" she asked, reaching for the vinaigrette dressing. "If you say it's a business call, then it must be one. Why are you getting so hot about it?"

"Perhaps because of the way you phrased the question in the first place," he retorted. Eleanor did not reply, and Jeff huffed out a breath, then returned to his meal, shaking his head. A brief silence fell over the table, and Virgil decided to do something about it. "Hey, Tin-Tin," he said as he served himself and passed her the bowl. "You're pretty quiet tonight. What's up?"

"Oh, nothing really," the girl replied. "I'm just planning another new design for the uniforms in my head and I'm trying to get it solid in my memory. I'll transfer it to my sketch pad after dinner."

"Where are you going to put your locator?" Gordon asked her.

She smiled at him. "I think I'll put it under the skin on the outside of my ankle. That way Brains won't get too embarrassed."

The diners chuckled again, and Gordon piped up with, "Hey, Brains! Who's going to implant your locator?"

The scientist was unperturbed. "I a-already have. I put mine in a similar place to Tin-Tin's. I-It was, uh, easy to do." He gave Gordon an amused look. "Not that I d-don't trust you... uh, most of you...but I thought I sh-should test it on m-myself, uh, first. Now that I have, w-who's g-going to be my first vic... uh, patient?"

Gordon pointed at Scott, Scott pointed at Virgil, Virgil pointed at John, and John pointed at Gordon, each of them saying, "He is!" in near perfect unison.

When the laughter died down, Jeff spoke up. "Since I'm the commander, I'll be the example. I'll go first and get it over with."

"Then Scott, as field commander, can be next," Gordon said with a grin.

"I don't know, Gordon. Maybe we should go in alphabetical order," Scott replied.

"I can go for that!" Virgil said eagerly. "Means I'm last!"

"No," Jeff finally said. "We'll use the Thunderbirds to determine the order. Scott's in One, so he'll follow me. Then Virgil, and John..."

"Hey!" John protested. "My Thunderbird is Five!"

"Not when you're on Earth, it's not," Jeff said, a sly smile creeping over his face. "Gordon can be last of you boys. Let him savor the anticipation. Mother, Tin-Tin, and Kyrano can have theirs done when they please, but within the next day or so."

"Gee, thanks, Dad," Gordon said, not wholly pleased with his father's suggestion.

"Still, it's fair enough," Scott admitted. "And actually, Alan will be last."

"Lucky dog," Gordon muttered.

Jeff shook his head, and turned the conversation to other matters.

Later, Jeff sat at his desk, rotating his left shoulder. He had told Brains to put the chip just below the collarbone on that side and he was still feeling the effects of the local anesthetic. The actual procedure took mere seconds. Brains took a few moments to confer with Alan and make sure that the signal the chip emitted was received by Thunderbird Five and that the specific frequency was logged as belonging to Jeff. Everything seemed to be working as it should, and Jeff left, smiling at his sons, all of whom loitered outside the sick room waiting their turn.

_Now to return that call. By my calculations, it would be seven a.m. in New York and one p.m. in Geneva. I think the timing will be right. _He activated his vidphone and dialed the number that his personal assistant had forwarded to him.

xxxx

"Snowball, yew idiot! Yew can't get him, theah's a window b'tween yew!" Cindy Lou shook her head as she watched her white cat pawing at the picture window. Sitting on the ledge on the outside of the window was a neighbor's marmalade tabby, steadily gazing with what Cindy Lou could only say was a smug expression at the frantic white feline within. Snowball hissed, and swiped at the tabby again, her claws tapping on the window. Her owner sighed with resignation and reached over to untangle the cat from the sheer curtains. She snuggled Snowball up against her bathrobe and carried her back to the kitchen. "Mebbe if'n Ah feed yew, yew'll stay out o' trouble."

As she dished up the foul-smelling paste, the clinking of the fork against the ceramic dishes drew the other cats from their places all over the house. They lined up in their own peculiar pecking order to gobble down the meat, some quietly, others noisily. Once her end of the job was through, she made a small pot of coffee and toasted a bagel for her own breakfast.

Taking coffee and bagel out with her to the living room, she put them down on her wide ottoman and fetched a large photo album from the cabinet under a bookcase. She moved over to the couch, sat down cross legged, picked up her coffee and opened the book.

Here she had stored the photos from her wall collage. Smiling, she flipped slowly through the book, remembering the people and the places of her former life as she munched on her bagel and sipped her coffee. She came to a page where there was a picture of the Tracy boys, sitting on a picnic table, all smiling. Scott was holding a pudgy baby Alan on his lap and Virgil's arms were wrapped around a toddler Gordon. John knelt on the table's top, his arms flung as wide as his mouth was open. She chuckled, remembering the day she took the snapshot, a clear October Saturday when she had taken the five of them to a nearby park, giving a sick Lucy a much needed break from parenting so she could rest. She smiled back at the boys, and the memory, then turned the page.

A few photos later, she found one of herself and Lucille, taken on one of their "girls only getaways". This one had been to New York City, where the wife of rising tycoon Jefferson Tracy and the Interpol officer had enjoyed an exciting time seeing Broadway shows and shopping in the garment district. The skyscraper that was to become Tracy Industries' corporate headquarters was still under construction, so the two stayed in a plush suite at the Plaza, enjoying the world-class service and the late night girl talk. It was then that Lou had confided in Lucille about the state of her marriage, and her fears that she and her husband were becoming estranged over the issue of childlessness. It was then that Lucy had given her the advice about adoption, an idea that Lou had latched onto as a lifeline. They had those getaways every year until a year before Lucille's death.

The next picture brought her to a halt. It was the one of Jeff and Lucille that Jeff had gazed at during his visit. Her eyes were drawn, not to the smiling face of her best friend but to that of her best friend's husband. She traced a finger lightly over the edges of his face. _The few days we had together... I'd forgotten how much I missed his friendship. Not only his, but Lucy's. I don't want to lose it... or him._

At that moment, Snowball's growl and hiss sounded from the front window again, shattering her reverie. She closed the book decisively, then put her coffee aside as she went to extricate the white cat from the sheers and shoo the marmalade tabby away from its favorite teasing perch.

xxxx

It was early afternoon when Piers Donovan's secretary called him with the news. "Sir? Mr. Tracy on line one."

Donovan sat up as if stung. He drew a quick comb through his hair and straightened his tie. He activated his vidphone. "Thank you, Sandy. Put him through."

On the vidphone's screen, the serious face of Jefferson Tracy stared back at him. "Mr. Donovan? Jeff Tracy here, returning your call."

"Yes, Mr. Tracy. Thank you for doing so." The Interpol chief looked at his clock. _Hmm. Seven-thirty in New York. He's up early. _"I hope your day is going well so far."

"It'll do," Jeff said gruffly. "Listen, Mr. Donovan. I have things to do and I'm sure you do as well. Your message indicated you needed some information from me?"

"Yes. I do." Donovan sat back, disturbed by the billionaire's abrupt manner. "I'm trying to track down Lucinda Myles. She is a friend of yours, is she not?"

Jeff studied the man on the vidphone screen. He had a narrow face and his hair, a more even mix of brown and gray than Jeff's, was brushed back smoothly from a widow's peak. His mustache was still mostly dark, and he wore small glasses on his long nose. He looked every bit the smooth bureaucrat, and the Tracy patriarch found himself mistrusting the man.

"Yes, Mrs. Myles is a friend of mine. What did you want to know?"

"I wanted to consult her on an old case, thought she might give me some perspective on a person she once arrested," Donovan said easily. "Can you tell me where to find her?"

Jeff shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't, Mr. Donovan. Mrs. Myles moved from her home in North Carolina, but she gave me no forwarding address." _That's true enough. If I went to the city where's she's currently living, I'd be looking for days, trying to find her._

"Has she been in contact with you since you last saw her?" the Interpol chief asked. _Is he lying or not? It's hard to tell._

"Yes, she has. By email."

"Could I have her email address?"

Jeff hesitated, then frowned as he replied, "Y'know, Mr. Donovan, Mrs. Myles was put through a really horrendous ordeal in North Carolina. I was unfortunate enough to be caught up in it. Her assailants have yet to be apprehended, and she's trying to keep as low a profile as possible so they can't find her again. I don't feel comfortable giving out _any_ information that might possibly lead to the discovery of her whereabouts, not until I know her attackers are behind bars. So, no, Mr. Donovan, you can't have her email address."

Donovan took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was not used to being thwarted, and to him, it didn't matter how rich and powerful a person was, no one was above the law. Still, alienating this particular rich and powerful man wouldn't get him what he needed. He swallowed slightly and smiled. "Well, would you at least pass on a message from me?"

"I might do that. What's your message?"

"That I need to talk to her about one Anthony Cho."

He could see that the other man was scribbling something down. "Anthony Cho," Jeff said. "That's all?"

"That's all, Mr. Tracy." _At least, that's all I'm going to tell you about._

"All right." Jeff looked at his watch. "If that's everything, I'll bid you a good afternoon, Mr. Donovan."

"And a good morning to you, Mr. Tracy. Thank you for your time."

Jeff nodded slightly and disconnected the call. Donovan sat back, his elbows on the arms of his chair and his fingers steepled. Then he reached across and activated the intercom. "Sandy? Do we have an vidphone trace on that last call?"

"I'll check, Mr. Donovan." The secretary fell silent, then her voice, full of regret, came back. "I'm afraid not, sir. There was some sort of signal interference. I couldn't get a number for you."

"Hmm. Thank you, Sandy." He sat back and laced his fingers across his midriff. _I hope Tracy forwards the message. I won't be able to check up on him, except possibly by leaving a message through his office again. He most certainly lives up to his reputation as a recluse. I wonder if he was even calling from New York. But where else would he be calling from? _He pulled over a data pad but didn't look at the information on it. _You are a puzzle, Mr. Tracy. One I'd enjoy solving... if I had the time. _With that, he turned his attention to the data pad.

xxxx

"H'Are ye ready, madam?" Parker said through his mustache as he drove to the jetport.

"Yes, Parks. I believe I have everything," Penelope replied. "My earrings are listening devices. I have my compact communicator and my shoes... well, you know what my shoes can do."

"Yus, madam," Parker said, a slight smile spreading across his face. " 'Ave ye done wha' yer h'employer told ye?"

She sighed. "Yes, Parks. I have. But... those edible transmitters give me such a sour stomach."

"Still, madam, yew know tha' 'e's worrid h'abaout ye."

"Yes, I do," Penelope said, smiling slightly.

Jeff's orders on the transmitter had been very explicit. "You're going into an unknown place, Penny, and a dangerous situation. I want Alan to be able to track you at all times so he can tell Parker where you are, and the only way for him to do it is for you to eat a transmitter." He had smiled and reminded her, "This should be the last time you have to use one. When we see you again, Brains will implant one of our new locator chips and we won't need the edible transmitters again."

"That sounds lovely, Jeff. And I shall take care to eat a transmitter before I leave," she had replied. "What do you want me to do should Franks be at the Minister's home?"

"Just inform me as soon as you can," Jeff had instructed, looking stern. "When you return to New Providence, we'll get some surveillance going so he won't leave there without our knowing about it. After all, the authorities are looking for him in regards to that double murder. A word in their ear might work. Though," he had paused, and his voice had gone hard, "I'd like to get my hands on him myself. I have a little score to settle with him."

"Now, Jeff, you do not have the luxury of vengeance," she had gently reminded him. "We shall see to it that the authorities in New Providence deal with him. I shall liaison with them in another guise as soon as possible."

She smiled again at the memory, then realized that they were already at the jetport. A sleek helijet waited on the tarmac by the private hanger where they had been directed. Taking a deep breath and making sure her wig was firmly in place, she stepped from the car, aided by Parker's steady hand. Looking beyond him, she saw Ramirez approaching, a cool smile on his face.

"Ah, Señorita St. Clair! I am glad to see you are punctual. I dislike tardiness," he said, offering his arm. "If your chauffeur will bring your bags, we will depart as soon as they are stowed." He tucked her hand under his elbow as he guided her to the waiting helijet.

"I find tardiness to be quite bothersome as well, Señor Ramirez," she replied with a warm smile, giving his arm a slight squeeze with her gloved fingers.

Parker opened the boot of FAB-1 and removed the overnight case and garment bag she had allowed herself, taking them to the rear of the helijet for storage. _Really, _she thought, _I **am** travelling light, but doing so makes sense. If I must make a quick getaway, I shall leave far fewer frocks behind. Now to turn on the charm..._

The flight to the cay passed companionably enough, though Penelope did feel uncomfortable with the cool, appraising way Ramirez ran his eyes over her form from time to time. Still, she kept her head and made small talk with the man, enjoying a glass of fine Spanish wine until they were over the little island itself.

"Look below, señorita. Look and see the jewel of the Exumas, my employer's home," Ramirez said as they banked over the green cay on their approach. Penelope stood to look out the small window, and Ramirez joined her, standing behind her so closely that when she turned back, she bumped into him... chest first. She smiled, then said softly, "If you will excuse me, señor, I should feel so much safer buckled into my seat for our landing."

"Of course, señorita." He smiled back, that cool, supercilious smile of his, then escorted her to her seat. She sat down smoothly and buckled her safety belt. Ramirez sat across from her, strapping himself in as the pilot announced their imminent touch down.

Once the engines were shut down, the hatchway was opened and a short stairway was brought to the door. Ramirez unbuckled himself and offered her his hand. She took it and rose from her seat, releasing his to smooth her skirt a touch, adjust her wide-brimmed hat, then retrieve her briefcase and handbag. Pulling a pair of designer sunglasses from her purse, she slipped them on her face, and followed him out.

The humid, tropical atmosphere of the Bahamas was freshened here by a breeze from the sea, but the breath of the Caribbean failed to completely wash away the subtle sylvan scent coming from the lush greenery that surrounded the airstrip. Penelope breathed deeply, appreciating the perfume-laden flowers that seemed to bloom on every side. Ramirez waited for her at the bottom of the steps, extending a hand again to help her down. Then he led her over to a man who had just alighted from an expensive, climate-controlled hovercar. She studied him as he approached, and knew herself to be under scrutiny from behind a pair of polarizing, military-style sunglasses. His suit, a pale off-white, was well-tailored, as was his pale blue shirt. He wore a matching off-white fedora with a black hatband, and a wider, somber black band around the upper sleeve of his left arm.

"Your Excellency," Ramirez said as they came close enough for normal speech. "May I present Señorita Alison St. Clair, aide to Señor Edward Trevelyan, Prime Minister of England." He turned slightly to Penelope and made a motion with his hand toward his employer. "Señorita St. Clair, may I present His Excellency, Señor Carlos Esteban Alvarez, Minister of Security to the World Government."

Lady Penelope graciously inclined her head as Alvarez executed a short bow, then extended a hand. She took his hand, and shook it firmly, once. "My condolences, Your Excellency, on your loss. I am truly sorry to intrude upon your time of grief, but Mr. Trevelyan specifically said I was to speak to you and you alone about the arrangements for his security," she said with an apologetic tone.

"I understand, señorita. Edward has always been nervous about his safety," Alvarez said with a slight smile. He shepherded her towards the car, and as she stepped inside, he spoke to Ramirez in Spanish. Penelope, fluent in three or four Continental languages, picked up the words "... take care of our guest ..." as they passed from the Minister to his secretary. The driver of the hovercar placed her bags, along with some packages and what must have been Ramirez's luggage, in the trunk of the vehicle. He came around and took his place behind the controls, then Alvarez joined her in the back seat of the hovercar, while Ramirez sat up front, next to the driver.

"I hope you find your visit here both profitable and enjoyable, señorita," Alvarez said genially, as the hovercar sped down a hill to the Minister's hacienda. "I will have Ramirez escort you to the guest suite so you may freshen up before dinner."

"Thank you, Your Excellency. I look forward to dinner and to discussing the security arrangements for Mr. Trevelyan's visit," Penelope replied.

"All business, señorita? We shall see what we can do about that after dinner," Alvarez said with a smile.

It didn't take long until they were at the large, heavy doors of the hacienda's front entrance. They looked to be made of an intricately carved wood, but Penelope very much doubted that they were wood throughout. _Probably wood laid over tungsten steel, unless I miss my guess. _She was not given the opportunity to test her theory as the door was opened for her by a massive man dressed in what she supposed must pass for the servants' uniform. There was a smaller, older, similarly-dressed man who reminded Penelope somewhat of Kyrano waiting to take the luggage from the hovercar.

"Come, señorita," said Ramirez as they entered the cool hall of the house. "I shall show you to your rooms, then someone will fetch you when it is time for dinner."

"Thank you, señor. You are most kind."

Alvarez watched the two as they walked down the corridor, his eyes, now free of the sunglasses, noting his lady guest's figure and walk as she glided along. He nodded to himself in satisfaction. _It is as I thought. Ah, but it has been a long time since we have crossed swords... Lady Penelope._


	9. Uncovering Fiction

_Author's Note: _Lady Penelope goes head to head with Señor Alvarez... who do _you_ think will win? And all you Virgil fan-girls, don't hate me, please! My thanks to Hobbeth being a sounding board and for her betareading skills. And to Math Girl for listening and helping me decide on the menu. My information on Columbian fare comes from the following websites:  
http:(slash slash)www(dot)recipesource(dot)com(slash)ethnic(slash)americas(slash)colombian(slash)  
and  
http:(slash slash)www(dot)recipelink(dot)com(slash)mf(slash)3(slash)8942

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Claudette: **As far as Lou and her cats are concerned, the first thing she did when Jeff came to visit (in _Serendipity_) was draw them away with treats. And they did get a bit spoiled with some tuna in that fic. But as to the rest of your comments? You may be onto me, my dear. ;)

**fellowriverrat: **Remember you? Of course! The microchip that the Tracys are using is a bit more sophisticated and actually transmits a signal that Thunderbird Five can receive and track. A less nauseating version of the edible transmitter, eliminating the need for transmitter solvent. The old school chum makes a brief reappearance here, but I don't think she'll be able to keep Penny away from the boys. Sorry! Thanks for your good words about the characterization of Jeff. It's true he's not shown as very demonstrative, but he does love his boys and it shows in little things, even in the series. I've never thought of him as a dictator, but definitely a leader and more importantly, a father.

**Math Girl: **Yes, Penny is in major trouble. As to who rescues who and when, that's still to come.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own them, I'm just writing about them. Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats, are mine. Especially the cats. See my bio for information on copying/hotlinking.

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

"How much longer?" Viktor Solokov asked as Parker guided FAB-1 in its fast hydrofoil mode across the placid Caribbean. 

"No' much farther t' h'our list'ning post," Parker said, sighing internally. He had been showing Viktor the controls, teaching him as much as he possibly could about the vehicle in the time they had. The three New Providence agents had been suitably impressed by the Rolls when they met Parker at the designated beach, but they were even more impressed when Parker activated the third setting of the camouflage paint. In an instant, the stately silver car's color changed. It became a matte black, and its clear dome became more opaque and less reflective. "Ye'll be h'able t' see h'outsayde wivout h'any trubble," he had proudly explained. "But 'twill be 'ard fer sum'un t' see h'insayde. E'en so, ye should 'ope fer clouds."

Clouds they didn't get, but between the moon being nearly new and its position in the sky, the camouflaged Rolls was barely visible on the sea. Parker checked his instruments again, then slowed the car, keeping it on its hydrofoil supports so it glided quietly across the calm waters.

He turned on the radio, aware of two people shifting forward to listen. Peter and Brigitte sat in the back seat, and during the ride they had taken the time to get to know the ordnance they were carrying: standard issue IR pistols for Peter and a stun rifle for Brigitte. The Kevlar vests for each member of the stealth team lay on the floor in back, ready to be donned at a moment's notice.

"Naow, lessee wha' milady's earrin's haf t' say fer themselfs," Parker muttered as he fine tuned the control. Suddenly, they could hear Penelope's cultured tones saying, "... fine wine, Señor Alvarez. My compliments on your taste."

In the formal dining room of the Minister's hacienda, Alvarez smiled back at his guest. "Gracias, señorita. I am a connoisseur of wine, and find that wines from South America are often equal in quality to that of the French but sorely overlooked. My native Columbia has been garnering a growing respect for its wineries." He paused. "I hope you are enjoying the meal. The dishes are traditional in my country."

Penelope studied the large room. Though it was not as large as the banquet hall in her own ancestral estate, it was spacious, and the table, done in a simple but elegant Mission style, was large enough to hold two dozen people comfortably. She and Alvarez were seated at one end of the table, him at the head of the table and she to his right. Across the table from her was a Ramirez, who gave her a slight knowing smile and an incline of his head from time to time. And sitting next to her was a tall, handsome, muscular blond with an infectious grin and an odd, genderless voice.

"James Franks, ma'am," he had said as he introduced himself, holding out a hand for a firm shake. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Alison St. Clair," she had responded with a smile. "And I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Franks."

She put down her glass, and picked up her fork. The meal had started out with conch fritters, called _frituras de caracol_, then progressed to the soup course, a rich avocado _vichysoisse_. The main entreé was _sobrebarriga_, a marinated flank steak. The steak was accompanied by _arepa_, small pancakes made from corn flour and cheese, _patacones_ or fried sweet plantain, and rice, cooked in coconut milk. The cuisine, so different from what she was used to, was delicious, and she said so. She even went so far as to ask for recipes, though she envisioned with amusement what Lil would say when presented with them. _Lil may try them once, but too soon they would get "lost" somewhere in the kitchen and never found again. However, Kyrano might find them interesting. I shall be sure he has a copy._

xxxx

Virgil shifted on his piano bench, and stared at the music he had selected. He had wanted to lose himself in it, but somehow, he couldn't focus. He played a few bars, then stopped, shaking his head. He looked over toward Jeff, who was fidgeting a bit behind his desk. The older man looked up, and their eyes met.

"Father...?"

"Yes?"

"Any news from Lady Penelope?"

Jeff shook his head. "No, but it's still early evening over there. Parker called in to say he was in position and listening to the conversation at dinner. He's on the job, and will be able to step in if need be."

Virgil frowned. "Still, this is such a dangerous situation. Aunt Lucinda said that Franks would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, and I'm sure these other men are the same way..." He let his sentence trail off.

There was a moment of quiet while Jeff contemplated Virgil's words. Then he asked, "What are you thinking, son?"

Virgil took a deep breath. "Well... I'd feel better if one of us were there, or at least nearby. To step in with some extra firepower. Or air cover should it be needed."

The father watched his son's face, so serious and worried. _This behavior is so sudden and odd, unless... could it be? Could Virgil be... attracted to Penelope? That certainly would explain things. _He spoke up and said, "You have a good idea there, Virgil. I'm none too comfortable with the situation myself. Perhaps one of you _should_ be nearby... just in case."

It was impossible to miss the relief and hope on the musician's face. "I can get Thunderbird Two..."

Jeff cut him off. "No. Not Two. And not you. If we have an emergency call, we can function much better without One than without Two. And besides, if necessary, Scott could get nearly anywhere in the world in just a short time to join you at a rescue site." He leaned over and pushed a button on the house intercom. "Scott, please report to the lounge."

"Okay, Father," came the response from somewhere in the sprawling complex. "I'm on my way."

Virgil's frustration was almost palpable. Jeff could tell that his son wasn't entirely pleased with the decision. _He wants to be the one to rescue Penelope should she need rescuing, _Jeff realized. _I can understand and even sympathize with his sentiment, but we need him back at base. I hope I can make him realize that. _

Scott strode into the room, wearing workout clothes and looking sweaty and disheveled. "What's up, Dad?"

Jeff indicated he should sit down, and Scott did as he was bid. "As you know, Lady Penelope and Parker are on assignment in the Caribbean. It's a very dangerous assignment, and although Penny has our New Providence agents there for backup, I'd feel better if one of you boys were nearby to provide some extra firepower. Since Thunderbird One can make it to any Danger Zone in just a short time, and we absolutely have to have Thunderbird Two here in case of an emergency rescue, I'm sending you out to lend a hand if it's needed. Virgil had a good idea about Penelope needing possible air cover. You're to provide it."

Scott glanced from father to brother and back again, a bemused expression on his face. "F-A-B, Father. Any specific coordinates? Any equipment I should take?"

"Check with Brains and see how far he's gotten with those visors. Take the baseball cap, gloves, and don't forget your hands-free communicator. I'll give you coordinates once I check with Alan. We'll need a suitable place for you to land nearby, but one where you won't attract attention. Not an easy task. For now, see Brains then get airborne."

"Right, Father," Scott said smartly. He stood and headed out of the room via the study. Virgil glanced over at Jeff, whose attention was diverted as he activated transmission with Thunderbird Five, then got up to follow his brother out. "Scott! Wait up!"

The eldest Tracy son stopped on the stairs to the lower level and waited for Virgil. They fell into step as Scott made his way to the elevator that would take him to the underground monorail, and eventually, Brains's lab. He gave his sibling a keen glance. "Okay, Virge. Spill it."

"Spill what?"

"Why _you_ came up with the idea that Penelope might need air cover. You don't usually think in terms of military strategy; you leave that up to me, or Dad, or even Gordon. So, why are you starting now?"

Virgil took a deep breath, then let it out in a huff. "I'm not." He made a frustrated motion with his hands and gave his head a swift shake. "At least..." Interrupting himself, he looked Scott in the face and caught his brother's gaze. "I... I just think that Penelope's in over her head this time, that's all. This is a ruthless group she's up against, even worse than those crazies on the Riviera, and she's on an_ island _with them, for God's sake! FAB-1 may be able to outrun anything on land, and give any powerboat or hydrofoil a run for its money on the water, but it's vulnerable to an air attack. One good strike with a missile and, boom! No more FAB-1!" He raised a hand to run through his chestnut hair as they stopped before the elevator. "I'd rather be out there myself..." His voice trailed off as he saw Scott gazing at him intently.

"You'd rather be out there yourself?" Scott shifted his position as he stood, leaning closer to his brother, lowering his voice. "Y'know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say that you were... hot for Lady Penelope."

Virgil smiled weakly and gave Scott a playful punch in the shoulder. "Well, you _do_ know better, don't you? Alan's the one who really has the hots for her and that's only in his dreams."

Scott snorted a laugh. "Yeah, and if Tin-Tin knew about some of those dreams, she'd make him _want_ to go to Thunderbird Five and stay there... indefinitely."

The two laughed together, then Scott stepped into the elevator. "Look, I'm fond of Penny, too. I wouldn't want to see anything bad happen to her. So I'll do my best to keep FAB-1 in one piece. You can tell that to Father, too. I'm sure he's even more worried about her than we are."

Virgil glanced upward, as if looking at the lounge, then brought his gaze back down to meet Scott's and nodded. "You're probably right about him. Just be careful yourself, okay?"

Scott raised an eyebrow. "Hey, that's my line!" Raising a hand in farewell, he said, "See you later, Virge."

"Later, Scott."

The doors closed, and Virgil sighed, then turned away. _I can't go back up to the lounge, not now. I'd be too antsy. Maybe a good workout or a swim would help. Then when my head is clear again, I can check with Dad on Penelope's progress. _Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walked off in the direction of the upper level and his room.

Once the doors had closed and the elevator activated, Scott leaned back against the opposite wall, arms crossed and a thoughtful look on his face. _He can't hide it, not from me. Virgil's in love with Penelope, or at least, he thinks he is. What a mess there would be if Dad found out! There's always been the unspoken understanding that Dad and Penelope are... a couple. _He ran a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. _Well, we'll have to deal with it later. Right now, I have a mission._

xxxx

Parker was getting antsy, and so were his companions. They were all listening carefully to whatever was going on, waiting for some sign, any sign, of trouble. The conversation was interesting enough, and it became clear to the eavesdroppers that Jim Franks was there on the island, a fact that Parker was itching to report to Mr. Tracy. But he didn't want to miss any of the broadcast, being of the opinion that he and he alone could tell if his employer was in danger just by what she said. So it was with irritation that he answered the call on his little-used telecomm watch.

"FAB-1 from Five," the youthful voice of Alan Tracy called. "Come in, FAB-1"

"This h'is FAB-1. Go h'ahead."

"Base wants an update, Nosey."

" 'Ey! Wotch 'oo yer callin' 'Nosey', young man."

Alan chuckled. "It's better than being called, 'Hey, you!' isn't it?" He paused then repeated, "Base wants an update."

Parker muttered under his breath, and Alan pretended he didn't hear. "H'Our... _ahem_... h'operative h'is h'insayde, 'avin' dinner. Th' subject h'is h'on th' h'ayland."

"F-A-B, FAB-1. Base wants me to inform you that aerial backup in enroute to your position. However, we need a discreet place for him to land. Do any of the operatives with you know of such a place?"

Brigitte and Peter exchanged glances, as Parker and Viktor did the same. Viktor shook his head, and Parker looked back at the other two. Brigitte shrugged, but Peter looked thoughtful. "You don't want to have him in the city; there'd be too much risk of exposure or comment. But some of the ambassadors and other officials own property around here. Perhaps one of them might be amenable..."

"An' Ay fink Ay know chust th' one," Parker said. "FAB-1 t' Foive. Th' Pink Lady 'as h'a frien' in th' gov'ment. Name o' Add-ee-son Kenn-ee-cot. She's one o' th' representatives from Great Britain an' she's h'an h'ole school friend o' th' Pink Lady."

"F-A-B, FAB-1. I'll notify base. They'll probably have the remaining operative in Unity City get in touch with her," Alan said. "Anything more from the Pink Lady?"

Parker glanced at Viktor again, who had been listening intently. "Dessert is being served."

"Th' meal h'is h'almos' h'over," Parker relayed.

"Acknowledged. I'll update base. FAB-1 from Five, out." Alan's face disappeared.

_Cheeky!_ Parker thought as he turned back to listen to the dinner conversation.

xxxx

"The vidphone, madam," said the maid as she entered the dining room

Addison Kennicot sighed. "Who is it, Marie?"

The maid frowned. "I don't know, madam. They did not appear on the ID, and chose voice only. But they say it's urgent."

Addison looked at her two sons, who gazed back at her, their meal interrupted. She sighed heavily, then rose from the table. "Continue eating, children. I will return shortly."

As she made her way to the study that doubled as her home office, Addison had a fleeting wish that her husband had not died so suddenly, and moreover, that she had not run for his office in the World Senate. But he had such strong ideas and dreams for the world's governing body, and she could not stand to see those plans abandoned because his forceful leadership was gone. So she had run in his place, and won the election, and now... now she was learning how difficult life was for those in power. _There's no time for family,_ she mused as she sat down in front of the vidphone and took the call.

"Addison Kennicot here. Who is calling?"

The voice on the other end was feminine, and sounded mature with a hint of the islands to it. "My name is not important, but I represent International Rescue."

"International Rescue?" she asked in shock. "Why are you calling me?"

"You were recommended by one of our operatives."

Addison sat back in her chair. "May I ask who the operative was?"

"I cannot tell you that. But you were highly recommended."

"Hmph. What do you want with me?"

"We have need of a discreet landing site for one of our craft, for just a few hours, somewhere near the Exumas. I am calling to ask if you know of anyone who might oblige us?"

The representative sighed. "Well, I myself own a small bit of property on one of the cays... but I'm not sure if it will be what you need. It has no runway..."

"We need none. Just a flat place to land where we would not draw attention."

"Well, then, my property would do," Addison said. She took a long breath in and let it out slowly, making her decision. "And you are free to utilize it."

"May I have the coordinates?"

"Yes. Just a moment." She reached over to open a drawer, and pulled out a folder. "Here they are." She read them off to her mysterious caller.

There was a pause on the other end, then the voice returned, sounding pleased. "Excellent. I thank you on behalf of International Rescue for your help, Ms. Kennicot. Have a pleasant evening." The call disconnected before Addison could say another word.

In a slight daze, Addison got up and returned to the table. Her eldest son, a slight eight-year-old, looked up at her through his glasses. "Who was that, Mummy?"

Addison shook her head as she sat down. She smiled at him, and said simply, "Someone who needed my help."

xxxx

The denizens of FAB-1 looked up to see Thunderbird One streaking across the sky as it proceeded in a westerly direction.

"Looks layke our backup 'as h'arrived," Parker said quietly. The dinner was over and, from the conversation, Lady Penelope was now in Alvarez's office.

She was sitting in a comfortable leather chair in the tobacco-scented room, studying the man who sat across the desk from her. She had handed him the sealed folder, but instead of opening it by pressing his thumb to the security lock, he put it aside. He looked back at her frankly, then, as if sitting galled him, he got up and paced over to the window. The view of the sea was obscured by the darkness, and only that vegetation which was lit by the outside floodlights showed as he gazed out the window.

"Ms. St. Clair," he began. "Let us be candid with one another. You are not here to arrange security for the Prime Minister's visit."

Penelope's only outer reaction was to frown, but inside, her heart skipped a beat. "I do not know what you mean, Your Excellency. I am here to do the Prime Minister's bidding."

Still looking out at the night he shook his head. "I can only guess at your true intention, but I can see that you have employed an elaborate ruse to penetrate my defenses, and come here to my island." He clasped his hands behind his back. "I have looked into your past and your present, and the conclusion I have come to is that you are not who you claim to be. You are not Alison St. Clair."

Another skipped beat, but she kept her outward cool. She stood to approach him. "But Your Excellency, my _bona fides _can be established easily if you would open the file I handed to you."

She could see a smile cross his face in the reflection from the window. "I cannot open that file. Just as I cannot return to Unity City... yet. My plans are not yet come to fruition. But soon... soon." He sighed, then suddenly he turned. "As for you, you will find it much harder to leave than you anticipated... Lady Penelope."

There was a gasp from the speaker and matching gasps from the people in FAB-1 as the Minister made this proclamation. Parker shushed his co-conspirators and they listened as Penelope whispered, "No... not _you_. It cannot be..." Her words trailed off and there was a loud thump as if something had fallen.

Parker's face turned white. "No! NO! Not milady! Milaaaady!"


	10. An Operative Adventure

_Author's Note: _Virgil goes head to head with Jeff, and Parker goes... bonkers? A little insight into how at least one of these operatives knows the Tracys. And all you Virgil fan-girls, don't hate me, please! My thanks to Amanda Tracy for being a sounding board and to Math Girl for her betareading skills (Hobbeth is on vacation).

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Claudette: **Yes, m'dear, you are most definitely onto me. Scott and Ms. Kennicot? Hmm. An interesting idea, but one whose time has not come (if it comes at all). I'm sure Virgil appreciates your support.

**fellowriverrat: **Take your blood pressure medicine before you read this, hun. No, Penny has never been the kind of superagent she thinks she is. I'm glad you like Parker's role; it's expanded even more in this chapter, as well as those of the other agents.

**Math Girl: **Disguise has never been her strong suit... no pun intended. Hopefully we'll hear from Lou again, but not in this chapter.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own them, I'm just writing about them. Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou(slash)Lucinda and her cats, are mine. Especially the cats. See my bio for information on copying(slash)hotlinking.

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

"Hush!" Viktor shouted, putting a hand on Parker's arm and shaking him. 

The chauffeur began to power up FAB-1. "Ay'm gonna get those bloody..."

"Parker! NO!" bellowed Peter. "We need more information! Keep listening!"

"We can't go in without knowing what they're going to do!" Brigitte added.

The Cockney rounded on them with a look of cold fury on his face. "An' h'if they kill 'er?"

"They won't!" Viktor said. He had an ear nearly glued to the speaker. "Listen! Just listen!" He adjusted the volume higher and Parker turned around.

"...her to one of the smaller rooms, Ramirez, and lock her in," said the voice of Minister Alvarez.

"Yes, Your Excellency," Ramirez replied. "Any other instructions?"

"Search her. Remove all jewelry and her shoes. Have Franks search her luggage. Bring her handbag to me."

"Of course, Your Excellency." The anticipatory pleasure in Ramirez's voice engendered a low growl from Parker. There was a rustling sound, then suddenly, a loud thudding, scrabbling noise. "Here is one of her earrings. It fell to the floor with her wig."

"Remove the other one, and give them to me." The scrabbling sound grew in intensity, pounding off the speakers, causing Brigitte to pull back, frowning, and cover her ears.

The Minister of Security's voice grew loud. "Such pretty things, so innocent. But with this woman, anything is possible." There were a series of sharp cracks, loud at first, then softer, the sounds overlapping each other. Then a pause, and a louder snap, and a grinding sound, then another loud snap... then nothing but a slight white noise.

"He's destroyed her earrings," Peter realized. "Now we can't hear what's going on."

"We don' need t' 'ear h'enny more," Parker said darkly. "We're goin' h'in." He turned back to the controls.

"Wait!" Peter said, an urgent tone in his voice. He put a hand on Parker's shoulder. "We can't go in like this! We have to know precisely where she is. Then see if we can get in unlooked for. Maybe even create a diversion to draw off some of the household guards."

Parker's stiff shoulders did not relax, nor did he turn around. " 'Oo's sayde are ye on, yer bloody Mick?"

"On _our_ side, ye cheeky Cockney. An' on her ladyship's!" Peter said hotly, his Irish brogue coming forth in his anger.

"Well then, wot d'ye want h'us t' do? Wait 'til they kill 'er?"

"No, o' course not!" Peter replied sharply. "First of all, let's get a report from our eye in the sky. Get some sense o' where she is on the property. And call base, for pity's sake! They're going to want to know about this!"

There was a long, tense silence, one that had the three local operatives holding their breath. Then Parker nodded. "Yer roight. They will want t' know." The others in the car glanced at each other and sighed in relief as he raised his arm and activated his telecomm. "FAB-1 t' Foive. Come h'in, Foive. We 'ave h'an h'ee-mer-gen-see sitch-ee-ay -shun."

xxxx

"Damn!" Jeff shouted, slamming a hand on his desk. "How the_ hell _did the bastard know who she was?"

"I don't know, Commander," Alan said, shaking his head slightly. He consulted his data pad. "The operatives on the scene said that he named her as Lady Penelope. Then she whispered, 'It can't be you,' and it seems she must have passed out. Minister Alvarez has ordered her locked up and, uh, searched." Alan nearly cringed when he saw his father visibly swallow and pale slightly before his jaw set and his blue eyes hardened. "I'm told that, after he gave the order to have her locked up, the earring transmitters were discovered and destroyed."

"So, what does Nosey need?" Jeff asked, going to his computer and pulling up a map of the world. He clicked on the general area of the Caribbean, then enlarged the area, focusing in on smaller and smaller landmasses until he could see three dots clearly, one blue, one pink, and one a light gray.

"He needs a schematic of the house, and a location of where she is within it. The locator array on FAB-1 is too generalized," Alan said, scrolling down his data pad again. "Plus an... incendiary device. The strike team is going to set off a diversion, try to draw away the guards." He looked up at his father. "Alpha could do that from the air..."

Jeff sat back in his chair and looked thoughtful. "No. He'd better not."

"Why not?" Alan asked, perplexed.

Jeff turned to him. "The operatives are anonymous and not easily linked to International Rescue. Thunderbird One is neither. If Minister Alvarez _is_ the source of the blackmail scheme, I don't want to give him anything to use as ammunition against us." Looking over at the map again. "Can you get Nosey the schematic?"

"I've already taken infrared pictures of the house and indicated where she is according to her edible transmitter. I'll pass them along on through the wireless 'Net hookup on FAB-1. But what about the incendiary device?"

"Have Nosey rendezvous with S... with Alpha some distance from the Minister's cay. Alpha can pass them one or two then." Jeff instructed. "And get moving! We don't have time to waste!"

"F-A-B, Commander," Alan responded.

His picture blinked out, and Jeff reached over to flip a switch. "Thunderbird One from Base. Come in, Thunderbird One."

Scott had been cooling his heels for around twenty-five minutes. He had climbed out of his 'Bird to take a brief look around when he first arrived at the Kennicot property. Everything was quiet; the comfortable-looking cottage was empty and dark. Satisfied that he wasn't observed, he went back to sit outside on the cleared dirt landing area, leaning up against one of Thunderbird One's struts... until the mosquitoes got too bad_. What do they eat when they can't get pilot?_ he groused internally as he climbed back into the cockpit and sealed it against the questing hordes of insects. The itching of his bites had tapered off when the call came in from base.

"Thunderbird One from Base. Come in, Thunderbird One."

Scott reached over to activate the cockpit communicator's screen and slipped his hands free earphone and mike over one ear. "Thunderbird One here. Go ahead, Base."

"The Pink Lady has been captured."

"What!" Scott sat up straight at this announcement and began to bring One's engines online. "I'm going in."

"Negative, Thunderbird One. I repeat, negative," Jeff's voice was sharp and commanding. "You are not to engage. I repeat, you are_ not _to engage. Here are your instructions. You are to rendezvous with FAB-1 at the following coordinates." Scott's hands moved quickly to enter the coordinates that his father read to him. "You will pass them four incendiary devices. Then you will remain on standby to provide air cover as needed for an escape. Is that understood?"

"F-A-B, base," Scott said, feeling the familiar rush as Thunderbird One took to the air. _I understand it, but that doesn't mean I agree with it. I think you and I are going to have a little talk about this when I get back, Dad._

xxxx

Penelope woke up slowly, her head throbbing. She sat up by degrees, putting a hand to her head, rubbing her temple. She tried to remember what had happened, but her recollection was fuzzy. _The last thing I remember, I was in Alvarez's office... we were talking... then... ugh! This headache! Maybe if I can get rid of it, I will remember what happened to me._

She stood unsteadily, stumbling slightly toward the wall and putting a hand out for support. She lifted her the other hand to brush back the hair that had fallen toward her face, then straightened suddenly, her eyes wide with surprise. She leaned against the wall and used both hands to explore her head, and groaned as she realized she was no longer wearing a wig. _I had best take stock of the rest of my person._

What she found, and didn't find, discouraged her. She had been stripped of all of her jewelry and her shoes, with their special, explosive heels, were gone as well. Her designer frock was rumpled and open at the back. She took herself into the attached bathroom and pulled off the dress to examine the underthings beneath. The bra was hanging on by half of its hooks, and her hose had several ladders in them. She swallowed hard, and made one more examination, then sighed with relief when she found no signs that indicated sexual penetration. Still, the violation of her person to this degree unnerved her. She allowed herself one long shudder, then put up her chin and dressed again, discarding the hose, her cool, imperious mask sliding into place again.

Having completed her personal examination, she began to examine the room. It was obvious that she was no longer in the luxurious suite they had shown her to upon her arrival. There was no mirror in the bath, and though there was a shower and tub, no curtain. She padded out in her bare feet to see what the bedroom had to offer. The only furniture was a single mattress and box spring set, sitting on the floor and covered with one sheet and a single blanket. She went slowly around the room, looking for surveillance devices, and mentally marking those she found. The door was locked, and the single window was tall, narrow, and made of some tough polymer. There was no curtain. She sat down on the side of the bed and thought about her next move.

_Obviously, I have "hit the jackpot" as it were with Señor Alvarez. Otherwise, I would not be a prisoner. What part Mr. Franks plays in this and why he is here, I do not know... yet. I hope that Parker was able to hear the conversation at dinner and was able to pass on the information about Franks to Jeff._ She rubbed her temples again. _If only I could remember what they used on me that caused me to pass out as I did. _

She closed her eyes as she tried to remember the scene. _I was in his office. I had handed him the security envelope. He did not open it, but got up and walked to the window. We talked... he said I wasn't Alison St. Clair! _Her forehead creased into an unbecoming frown as she struggled to remember. _He... he said he couldn't open the envelope... and that his plans... were not yet ready. Then... he called me Lady Penelope! _She shook her head, puzzled. _I am certain I have never met Señor Alvarez before, so how did he know...? _

Suddenly her eyes went wide. "Oh, my good Lord!" she whispered. "I remember now. His eyes... those glowing eyes..." She took a deep breath, then another. "How long has he been planning this, working on this? It has been... six months? A year? More? How long since the helijet crash? He probably had the Minister's family killed... how diabolical! Now... now I am his prisoner." She set her jaw then sat up straight, a cool and confident expression on her face. "I have faced this man before," she said coolly, loud enough to be heard. "He has never gotten the best of me... and never will!" _Besides, we have planned for such a contingency. Parker and our other agents should be on their way very soon._

xxxx

Jeff sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He knew that his sons were fond of Penelope and that her capture in the Riviera had been a nail-biting time for them all. But at least in that situation, she had been able to make contact with them. Here, it was worse. They had no idea of her condition and the only thing that comforted Jeff at all was the fact that she had obeyed orders in the matter of the edible transmitter and that Alan could pinpoint her location. He turned back to his computer, the small window with the map and the glowing locator signals relegated to the upper corner of his screen. He could see the blue and gray dots moving, converging on the same place in the Caribbean.

"So? Why _won't_ you let Scott drop a missile on them?"

Jeff jumped as Virgil's voice, cold, angry and sarcastic, sounded in the room. He looked up to see his second-oldest, his most evenly-tempered son standing before his desk, arms folded, and brown eyes flashing with anger in the same way Lucille's had when she was furious with him. Virgil had been on his way to the piano when he heard his father's outcry and stopped in his tracks. He had peered through the grillwork separating the smaller study from the larger lounge, and his fists had clenched as he heard his father's directions.

"Virgil, I..." Jeff began.

His son cut him off. "Damn you! Why won't you let Scott take the bastards on? One missile from Thunderbird One's arsenal would have these sons of bitches down on their knees! You really think Parker and a bunch of amateur agents can take on this... Alvarez, or whatever his name is? You're risking Penelope's _life_ here! Don't you _care_?"

Jeff's face turned red, and his eyes became dangerously dark. He stood to his full height, and very deliberately, punched the button that made his desk rise. It stopped three quarters of the way up, sensors reading that the computer was not folded down into its storage mode. With the barrier gone, all it took was three quick steps and he was in Virgil's face. He stuck out a finger and shook it as he spoke, his voice low and full of fury.

"Now, hear this and remember it well. I care about Penelope. I care about her the same way I care about Tin-Tin or Brains or Kyrano. I understand fully that this is her life we are dealing with, and I am doing the very best I can to see to it that she comes out of this situation alive and unhurt. But... we are under siege. There are people out there who want to expose us. There are people out there who are trying to sully our good name. And I will not give them any occasion whatsoever to do either of those things! We've been trying to keep our tech out of the hands of those who would use it for making war or gaining power. Use Thunderbird One's arsenal, use any of our weaponry without just cause and we're just like they are. It turns us from rescuers into enforcers. And I will not let that happen! Is that understood?"

Seeing his father's enraged countenance and hearing his angry voice up close and personal, Virgil took a surprised step backward, not only physically but mentally. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm himself so he would not further stoke the fire of his father's fury. Still, he could not completely hide his own anger and frustration. "Understood..._ sir_."

Jeff backed off, still glaring at his second son. "Why are you so angry about this, Virgil? Don't you trust Scott to take care of things? Don't you trust Parker's loyalty to Penelope, or his skills? Why does this get you so damned furious?"

The Thunderbird Two pilot took a deep breath. "I... I'm concerned. Very concerned. And I still think that Scott letting loose a missile would create a far better diversion than anything Parker and the other agents could come up with."

Jeff lowered his desk again. When it clicked into position, he gave a quick glance at the map, then met Virgil's gaze. Putting both hands on the desk top and leaning forward, he asked point-blank, "Are you in love with Penelope?"

The sudden, short gasp, caught and moderated before it could be a larger, louder one, the widening of Virgil's eyes, and the sudden flush on his face told Jeff the whole story. Virgil looked at the floor first, then after a split second where he looked like a sheepish schoolboy, he squared his shoulders and looked his father in the eye again. "Yes. Yes, I am. I have been for a long time."

His father made no response other than to nod slightly. The older man sat down behind his desk, looked at the map. The blue dot was moving back toward its original position, and the gray dot that indicated FAB-1 was moving steadily toward the pink dot, which hadn't budged.

Scott's picture came alive. He said, "Base from Thunderbird One. Rendezvous successful. The strike team is armed... and _very_ dangerous if Agent 53's report is to be believed." Indeed, when Peter climbed the supple rope ladder to board Thunderbird One, he told Scott about Nosey's impatience to get the job done.

"If there hadn't been direct orders given, we'd already be on the island and in who knows what condition." He took one of the incendiary devices. "Now, Scotty me boy, how do I prime this thing?"

Scott put his 'Bird on autopilot, and came down to show the workings of the device to Peter. "Here. You turn this knob, press this button, begin a countdown to ninety, and run like hell!"

"Ninety second delay?"

"Right." Scott put the explosive back into the box. He reached up to grab a small pouch. "Here's something else you can use. Hands free communicators. They're already set at a frequency just for us."

"Thanks!" Peter said, tucking the pouch into a pocket. "Anything else?"

Scott began to climb back into his pilot's seat. "Not that I can think of." He made a vague motion toward the box of explosives. "You'd better be careful with those things!"

"Oh, I will," Peter replied with a grin. "I intend t' collect that pint ye owe me from that last football bet."

"Me? Owe _you_ a pint?" Scott said in mock confusion. "I thought you owed me a bottle of lager."

"Lager? How can ye drink that swill, Scotty?" Peter chivvied, his grin wider. "You, me? Who knows? Who cares? Just make some time fer me on yer busy social calendar, lad."

Scott returned the grin. "I will. We'll watch the games until we can't see straight. Melissa won't mind, will she?"

"Now, lad, don't speak ill o' me ball and chain. If I promise to watch the wee ones and let her go shopping, she'll purr like a kitten." A jerk on the rope and an irritated shout of, "Whatchyer doin' h'up there?" caused Peter to roll his eyes. "His Nibs calls. Take care, Scott."

"You, too, Pete."

The Irishman climbed back down the ladder, carrying the box down a few rungs, then handing it off to Parker. Scott saluted through the still open hatch, then winched up the ladder and closed the aperture. FAB-1 peeled off, heading back to the cay, while Scott turned his Thunderbird back towards the Kennicot property. "So I'm back on stand-by," he said to his father as he finished the bare bones of his report.

"F-A-B. Stay alert and keep in contact with us and with Nosey."

"F-A-B." Scott's portrait went silent, though it was still a live picture of him.

Jeff sat back, watching the two dots. He was aware of Virgil still standing, watching him intently. He tapped a stylus thoughtfully against his chin, then opened communications again with Alan.

"Thunderbird Five from Base. Sigma, are there any major disasters out in the world that you are monitoring?"

"There's a wildfire spreading through parts of Chile where they've had a drought condition lately, but the firefighters in the area are keeping it contained. Three fishing boats have gone missing off the international waters of the Grand Banks... wait, I'm beginning to get WASP talkback. They're on the job and think they've spotted the boats... or what's left of them. There's an earthquake predicted for later today or early tomorrow on the Western side of the Pacific Rim. We may even feel a tremor of it. The seismologists have had plenty of time to track this one and the lands in the path of any subsequent tsunami have been on high alert for the past two days." Alan looked up from his data pad. "Those are all the major things that have come in."

"F-A-B, Sigma. Keep an ear out for that wildfire. We'll be ready for the quake, should it come in on schedule." He cut the audio and turned to Virgil. Taking a deep breath through his nose and huffing out through his mouth, Jeff said, "FAB-1 has a limited supply of fuel. They may need a pick-up at sea." He shook his head, then waved his hand irritably. "Go. But your only job is to pick up FAB-1. And if we get a call on those wildfires, you are to divert your mission. Do you understand?"

Virgil's face went from frowning to incredulous to delighted in seconds. He moved quickly over to the painting that camouflaged his personal entrance to Thunderbird Two. "Yes, sir. Understood, sir."

"Take pod three with the fire fighting equipment! And wait for John, he is going along!" Jeff called as Virgil disappeared head first.

"F-A-B!" came a faint reply.

Jeff sat down behind his desk with a long-suffering sigh. He activated his telecomm watch. "John?"

The portrait of the handsome blond activated as he returned his father's call. "Yes, Father?"

"You are to report to Thunderbird Two, stat. Virgil will brief you on the way to the... danger zone. He's on his way down to the hangar right now."

John looked puzzled, but he replied, "F-A-B." His picture became static again, and Jeff shook his head. _John will keep Virgil from going overboard in his eagerness to be Penelope's "knight in shining armor". _He arched his back a bit, feeling the vertebrae shift into more comfortable positions, then he rolled and shrugged his shoulders to loosen the tense muscles. Getting up, he walked out onto the balcony and leaned with his elbows on the rail and his hands loosely clasped. The early afternoon sun glinted off the water, and he could feel a minute tremor beneath his feet as the cliff face door slowly opened. He watched the palm trees flop away from the tarmac as the ungainly cargo carrier rolled out from beneath the cliff and made its way to a spot just before the airstrip jutted out into the sea. The concealed lift tilted it up, though the motion wasn't as evident from where Jeff stood, and a small blast door opened. With a roar, the primary boosters ignited and the green leviathan shot up into the air, climbing quickly out of sight.

Gordon padded up the steps, drying his hair with a towel as he came. "Where's Virgil going?" he asked. "I didn't hear the emergency signal."

Jeff breathed out another sigh, then turned to his red-haired son with a rueful smile. "Let's go inside and I'll bring you up to speed over lunch." He activated his telecomm. "Kyrano, Gordon and I will be having lunch in the lounge."

xxxx

The quiet engine of FAB-1 quit and the dark Rolls Royce hydrofoil came to a slow halt in shallow water. Viktor was at the controls, and he listened carefully to the whispered last minute instructions from Parker.

"Go back aowt t' sea, an' wait fer th' signal. We'll call when we gets milady h'away from th' 'ouse. When ye gets h'it, come back h'in wiv guns hot." He put a calloused hand on the doctor's shoulder. "Ay knows yer don' layke guns, but yer gots t' be ready fer h'action, chust h'in case. Let H'One know when ye come h'in."

Viktor nodded, and the three operatives climbed out, wading their way to shore, dressed in black from head to toe and with faces blackened. They wore Kevlar vests, night vision goggles, and all carried small backpacks. Brigitte's sack held a spare Kevlar vest for Penelope, Parker carried his lockpick tools and one of the incendiary devices, while Peter carried the other three explosives. They all carried infrared flashlights and their IR-issued ordnance with ammo. Once past the sand, and into the surrounding foliage, they huddled for one last discussion of strategy.

"Yer goin' t' th' 'eliport pad an' creatin' h'a difersion," Parker said to Peter.

"Check," was the Irishman's reply.

"Ye an' Ay h'are goin' h'up t' th' 'ouse t' find Milady. 'Opefully, we'll not need t' go insayde," the chauffeur informed Brigitte.

"Yes. I understand," the firefighter said.

" H'As soon h'as ye set th' difersion, hot foot it h'over t' 'elp h'us," Parker continued. "H'Unless we gif th' signal that we've got Milady." He lifted his watch near his face. "Syn-kro-nise watches." He grinned, his teeth shining in the light of the telecomm watch. "Ay've h'always wanted t' say that."

The two other operatives looked at each other and shrugged. They both had the newer, hands free communications units. But they humored the chauffeur by setting their watches to his.

"H'All righty now, mates. Let's go, an' good luck," Parker finally said. Parker and Brigitte headed up a well-worn path to their left, crouching as they went, while Peter melted into the shadows to the right, taking a path that had he had memorized from the maps.

xxxx

Alvarez inspected the contents of Penelope's purse. A lipstick, a hairbrush, calling cards with case, a silver compact, a pen, and a wallet which contained some Unity City currency and a bank card in the name of Alison St. Clair lay in neat formation on his desk. Her PDA, taken from her briefcase, was in Ramirez's hands, and he was trying to get into the files stored there. The two men looked up when they heard a knock on the door. Alvarez said, "Come in."

Jim Franks entered the room cautiously, a pair of high-heeled sandals hanging from the fingers of one hand, and a pair of ladies' pumps tucked under one arm. "I didn't find anything out of place in her luggage. But I brought her shoes, as you requested." He paused. "I will say that, for a public servant, she has exquisite taste. The clothes are all designer labels, right down to the underwear."

"What about the makeup?" Alvarez asked.

Franks shrugged. "Nothing amiss that I noticed. I can go back and look again."

The Minister shook his head. "No need. I am certain we have enough here to prove who she is. As to who she is working for, we shall get that out of her one way or another."

"I don't get it," Franks said, puzzled. "How do you know she's not working for His Majesty's government? It would make sense with her having the cover of 'aide to the Prime Minister'."

"His Excellency has his own sources," Ramirez piped up. He looked at the PDA and shook it with frustration. "Diablo! I cannot get past the log in screen!"

"Give it to Jorge," Alvarez instructed his secretary. He thought for a moment, then smiled slyly. "Tell him that if he should manage to break into it, he is to upload the termite to each and every email address he finds." Ramirez nodded, and left the room. The Minister turned to Franks. "I know she works for someone because I have encountered her before. However, she did not recognize me, which gave me an advantage. An advantage I used to bring her near and into my grasp." He sat down behind his desk, and began toying with Penelope's pen. "Now, this woman does not work alone. Her chauffeur, a former cat burglar, is her accomplice. I expect him to try and rescue her."

"By himself?"

Alvarez waved a dismissive hand. "He is fiercely loyal, this chauffeur of hers, but not very bright. His loyalty will be his downfall." He beckoned his security guard from the alcove where he watched the conversation. "Luis! Make sure a double complement of guards are on alert this night. Bring anyone who dares to trespass directly to me."

Luis nodded. "Si, Your Excellency." He sketched a small bow and went off to do his master's bidding.

Franks took a seat without invitation. He sat slouched a bit with his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His elbows sat on the arms of the chair and he steepled his fingers. "So, what are you going to do with this phony 'Alison St. Clair'? Play with her? Kill her? What?"

"Her name is Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, señor, and no, I do not intend to kill her. Play with her? Perhaps. But she is far more valuable alive as a bargaining chip. And as a source of information."

Franks frowned. "You sound like you know a whole lot more about her than you're letting on."

Alvarez smiled. "I do. But I am not prepared to tell you anything more. Later, perhaps."

The former officer shrugged. "Whatever you want. You're the boss."

xxxx

Peter glided from shadow to shadow, wary of all noises and watching all around him. He had known Scott as a young man, when the two of them were roommates at Oxford together. Scott had gone on to the US Air Force, and Peter, after much soul-searching, joined the RAF, making a decision that would color his relationship with his family forever. But now the skills he had learned as an airman were coming in handy.

He found his way to the helijet pad, being careful to avoid the irregularly spaced photoelectric triggers along the path that he took. Alan had managed to get his satellite's camera to zoom in so close that those pesky security devices showed up in the infrared. And they showed up in the light of Peter's torch, too. Once at the aircraft landing site, he took a good look around. _There's got to be a fuel dump somewhere. Or maybe taking out one of the helijets will work. It would be one less impediment to our escape._

Peter chose his target carefully, and skirted around the open concrete pad to reach it. It was the same helijet that had carried Lady Penelope to the islet in the first place. He pulled one of the incendiary devices from his pack and slipped it under the craft near the back, where the fuel tanks were. In the shadows cast by the bright security lights, he set the timer, repeating under his breath the instructions Scott had given him: "Turn the knob, press the button," in his mind he started counting down from ninety, "... and run like hell!"

As he turned to do just that, he heard a loud, "Hey!" He turned to see a massive man standing at the nose of the aircraft, silhouetted in the glare of the security light. Peter saw his shoulders move; his hands and arms came up to be outlined by the yellow glow and there was a glint of light off something metallic in his hands. Peter didn't think, he just reacted. He turned and ran, the mental countdown still going on in his head. There was a loud crack and he felt a hot sear across one arm as behind him the helijet went up in a ball of flame.


	11. Rescuer's Logbook

_Author's Note: _Death and destruction, all brought to you by Parker, the IR operatives, and the villain of our story. And all you Virgil fan-girls, don't hate me, please! My thanks to FrankieC for being a sounding board. Any mistakes in spelling, grammar, etc. are all my fault. (Hobbeth is still on vacation).

Now, on to my reviewers.

**fellowriverrat: **Whew! I'm glad I didn't stroke you out. Yes, your assessment of the villain is right; and if anyone hasn't guessed it, this chapter will make it very clear who's behind all this. Glad you liked seeing Penelope vulnerable; she's in a difficult position and the cool "stiff upper lip" that she projects in the series has to be shaken sometimes. Thanks for the good words on the Jeff/Virgil confrontation. The boys are grown ups now, and that means they're going to take on the old man from time to time. Jeff sent John along because he's more level headed than Gordon is sometimes. Whether or not John approves of the mission, you'll see soon.

**FrankieC:** I was afraid that Virgil was going to come across as OOC, but as you intimated, love makes people do strange things (like take on an angry father!).

**Math Girl: **Cool image, though not one I had in mind when I wrote the scene. I'm glad you liked the excitement, hopefully this chapter will have more. As for Franks, he was sent off to search Milady's luggage, while Ramirez searched Milady's person, though I'm sure Franks wouldn't mind getting his hands on Penelope... literally. As you've seen already, Jeff sent John because of his level-headedness. And not only does Jeff know how Virgil feels about Penelope, Virgil (if he gives it any thought) knows where his father stands in regards to her.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own them, I'm just writing about them. Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou(slash)Lucinda and her cats, are mine. Especially the cats. See my bio for information on copying(slash)hotlinking.

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

The explosion rocked the hacienda, then a loud siren began to wail. Alvarez merely looked up as Franks jumped to his feet. 

"No hurry, señor. It is merely a diversion. It will take the chauffeur time to find his employer. And I will even make it easy for him. Capturing him gives us a lever over her... just as she provides a lever over International Rescue."

"Still, shouldn't there be someone waiting for him when he gets to her room?" Franks asked, sitting back down reluctantly.

"There will be. Would you like to join the welcoming committee?"

Franks smiled. "I think I'll leave it to your guards. Now, if you need some help questioning this... Lady Creighton-Ward, I'd be glad to assist."

Alvarez glanced at him, then looked back down at Penelope's lipstick, which he held in his hand. "I will consider your offer."

At that moment, Parker and Brigitte had found the windows on the side of the house where Lady Penelope was imprisoned. The night vision goggles that they wore enabled them to see the guards who stood nearby, concealed... but not well enough. Brigitte whispered in the Cockney's ear, "I will take out the guards." She hefted her stun rifle. "You open the window."

"F-A-B," he whispered back. Brigitte nodded and made her way past him, disappearing into the darkness with nary a sound. There were two quick "twick" sounds, then a loud, "Ow!" from one side and a louder "Hey!" from the other. Then two nearly identical and unison groans, and the rustling noises caused by two stunned and fallen bodies. Parker was up and moving as soon as he heard the stun gun go off, crouching and nearly crawling along the path, trying to make as little noise as possible. He came up to the wall of the hacienda, and whispered into his wrist telecomm. " 'Ow close h'am Ay?"

Alan's voice sounded out at the lowest volume that Parker could set the watch at and still hear. "You're there, Parker. She registers as right in front of you."

"F-A-B," he replied. Reaching up, he felt the window._ Some kind of strange plastic. Prolly shatterproof. Lessee how well it does aginst a laser. _Rummaging around in his bag, he pulled out a penlight. Clicking one end of it, he activated a laser with a short but concentrated beam.

Brigitte suddenly appeared beside him, her rifle slung over her shoulder. "I took out two more guards, one on either side. But I'm sure there are hidden cameras," she murmured.

"No tayme t' deal wiv 'em naow," Parker muttered under his breath. "Need t' get 'er Ladyship aowt toot sweet." He applied the laser to the window and began to cut through the tough polymer.

"I'll cover your back," Brigitte promised softly. Parker nodded and continued to work.

Within the room, Penelope opened her eyes slightly at a hissing sound coming from the window. Her nose wrinkled slightly at the smell of burning plastic, but she didn't glance that way. Instead, she closed her eyes again, feigning sleep, hoping to confuse her watchers. _Good work, Parker. Now just a little faster..._

xxxx

Virgil frowned as he checked the speed he was getting from Thunderbird Two. "She's wide open and it's still going to take me well over an hour to get there," he muttered.

Behind him, nearly forgotten in Virgil's determination to get to the Bahamas, sat John. He heard his brother's mutters, and decided to speak up. "Virge? Where are we going? What's the emergency? Dad didn't set off the signal. Where's Scott?"

Virgil jumped slightly, then turned his head back to look at his brother. "Oh, hey. I'd almost forgotten you were there." He faced forward once again and checked his controls. "Where are we going? The Bahamas, specifically the northern part of the Exuma Islands. What's the emergency?" He paused for a moment, trying to make his voice as neutral as possible. "Penelope. She went on an undercover mission and is in trouble."

"What?" John shouted, incredulous. "When did this happen?"

His brother consulted the console's chronometer. "The trouble? I guess it's been about an hour or so now. Maybe longer. Scott's already on the scene to provide aircover for an escape. We're going in case FAB-1 needs a pick up."

John chewed on this information for a while. "So, what specifically is Penelope doing in the Bahamas?"

"Trying to get a handle on that Franks character. He was tracked as far as the private island of the Minister of Security. It seems she managed to charm her way out there and got caught."

"It's not the first time she's been caught undercover," John said laconically. "So, Parker's out there trying to rescue her?"

Virgil sat up as if stung. "Yes," he said, snipping the end off the word, his voice suddenly cold. "Parker and a bunch of amateur IR operatives."

John's eyes narrowed as he studied his brother's now stiff posture. "You don't have to bite my head off, Virge. At least this time she has some back up. She usually goes in with just Parker... then we get called out to save her." Virgil didn't reply, and John folded his arms across his chair restraints. "You know it's true. You know it better than I do; after all, you're the one who's been in on rescuing her most often."

"And I'd rather have been in on this from the first," Virgil retorted.

"What? Then what would have happened it there was a call?" John asked, incredulous. "Scott could meet up with us from anywhere but we need..."

Virgil cut him off. "I know all that. Father explained it to me."

"So, explain it to_ me _again. Why are we doing this?" John pressed.

"Because they're using FAB-1 in hydrofoil mode and Father realized it might run out of fuel before reaching safety." The pilot was glad to have an excuse, any excuse, rather than tell his brother how he felt about the aristocrat.

The younger man thought about Virgil's words, then nodded before asking, "So, what's back in the pod?"

"Fire fighting equipment, just in case. Alan's watching some wildfires in Chile. If they call for help, we're supposed to go right away."

John huffed out a breath. "Fair enough. What's our ETA?"

"A whole lot later than I'd like," Virgil muttered. He raised his voice. "ETA: one hour, five minutes."

xxxx

Cindy Lou entered her house through the back door. She had just set the alarm in the garage, and was getting ready to close up her house for the evening. Hanging up her cardigan on the hooks just inside the doorway, she dropped her workout bag, then primed the alarm unit there. Her stomach grumbled; she hadn't eaten dinner at her usual time, deciding instead to visit the fitness club she had just joined. The workout, and the rehydration drink she had sipped as she used the club's equipment, had pushed away the signs of hunger for a time. But now they were back, and she couldn't ignore them any longer. The four cats, all crying in their distinctive meows, either curled around her ankles or tried to lead her to the spot where they usually ate.

"All right, yew furry tahrants," she said with a wry smile. "Ah know what yew want."

She pulled out the ceramic dishes, and spooned some canned cat food into each of them. "Ah think Ah'll add a little somethin' t' tonight's meal." Ducking into the cryofridge, she pulled out some chicken, leftover from a restaurant meal earlier in the week. She pulled meat from the bones, and chopped it up fine in a food processor, reminding herself of Spot's aversion to anything sliced or diced. Adding a portion of the chicken to each bowl and mixing it in with the paste, she set the bowls down, two at a time, and watched the felines dig in. Then she ducked back into the cryofreezer and pulled out a single frozen dinner.

"Hmm. Beef stroganoff," she murmured, reading the label for the reheating instructions. She sighed, popped the package into her nuclear cooker, set it for the proper time, and turned it on. Fetching a drink while the meal heated, she took it and some utensils out to her computer desk, then returned for the dinner. "Hot! Hot!" she cried as she tried to pull the dinner tray out with her bare fingers. Quickly grabbing a pot holder to shield her hands, she managed to transfer the disposable dish from the cooker to her palm, and quickly walked it out to the computer desk.

A simple movement of the mouse, and her computer came to life. She took a sip of her drink, then a bite of her dinner, then another quick, panicked gulp of liquid as the stroganoff burned her tongue. _I'd better let that cool a bit. Let's see what kind of email I have today._

Checking each of her boxes was could be time consuming. Her network of email correspondents was large, and she had several different email addresses, including the boxes in her own domain. Some she checked every day, others she checked once a week. Today, she was checking them all.

She frowned as she opened a window to one of her more obscure email dropboxes. _Hmm. Something from Tony Cho. It's been here what? Three, four days? Pretty big file size, too. Must have an attachment. Yep, it does and it's the size of most proprietary programs. The title... damn it, Tony, you know I don't speak Chinese! I'd better see if one of the more reputable translation programs can handle it for me. As for that attachment, I am **not** opening it, no how, no way! Not until I've translated your message. _Minimizing the window, she went back to checking the rest of her email, flagging some for later reply, giving immediate attention to others, all the while pausing to eat her cooling meal and sip at her drink. At last, she felt free enough to come back to the mystery of Tony's message. Searching for one of the more accurate online translation pages, she copied the title then the contents of the letter to the action window. Clicking "Go", she sat back and waited, finishing her drink while she did so.

The translation came up in slightly stilted English, and she sat up slowly, her eyes widening in shock.

_Friend Lou,_

_This may be my end email. The program I have attached is why. I built it for people I did not know. They offered much money, very much money. But they paid not what they promised. So I cut in and find bank savings. Took money they owed. Not very happy people. They will kill me if they find me._

_You have my wood-eating bug, and you put it in files of Interpol, but it looked like International Rescue did it. This program is about them. It is a web and email scanner. It scans all languages and in major domains. Few emails are private. The (untranslatable)man gang use it to scan Web for name of International Rescue, then use what they find on website to make them look bad._

_I send this to you because you are my friend. You treat me like a person when you arrested me. I send this to you because you will do the right thing and because you must know International Rescue. I owe them for the life of my mother's mother. She was on first flying of Fire flash._

_I must send this now and try to hide. If I hide well, you will get another email. If not, I am most likely dead. Goodbye, friend Lou._

_Your friend,_

_Tony_

Lou read it through twice, then let out a deep sigh. "Tony, yew idiot! Why'd y'have t' go hackin' in somebody's bank account, huh?" she murmured, shaking her head. "Ah wish Ah could figger out what 'man' gang yoah talkin' about. But Ah bet Ah know what websaht is usin' it. Mebbe a little investigatin' o' mah own will turn up th' culprit."

She burned the attachment and email onto a disk, then deleted them both from her inbox. Going to her bookmarks, she pulled up the most rabidly biased of the anti-IR sites. After a moment's thought, she minimized that window, and started a search for the name of "Anthony Cho". She bit her lip, and tears came to her eyes as she read a short article in a Singapore newspaper archive detailing the mysterious murder of her hacker friend.

xxxx

Peter ran as if his life depended on it, as indeed it did. The helijet had gone up nicely, but his legs, arms, and the back of his head had all been struck with hot, flying shrapnel. His clothing gave him some protection, but not enough. One largish piece had hit him squarely between the shoulder blades, knocking him to the ground momentarily. But he was back on his feet in seconds, thanking the powers above both for the Kevlar vest, and for the fact that he was carrying the pack with the remaining two incendiaries in his hand, not on his back. He wished he could stop and deal with the bullet graze on his left arm, but he knew that the other guards were after him, their blood hot and ire provoked at the death or maiming of one of their number. A loud siren sounded off, proclaiming the presence of intruders on the cay.

Taking a brief break, he leaned over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. _Petey, me lad, you are seriously out of shape! _He could hear the guards behind him, coming closer, crashing through the decorative underbrush. _Okay, now. Time for another boom. Keep them after** you**, Petey, and not after Parker or Brigitte! _

He pulled a second incendiary device from his pack, and laid it in the bushes beside him, taking a deep breath, willing his fumbling fingers to sureness. _Knob turned, button pressed... 90, 89, 88, 87... c'mon lads, where are you? 80, 79... okay, time to run like the devil himself were chasing you!_

He got up and ran, not caring if he intersected any of the optical devices in his headlong flight. _10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4. 3, 2, 1... _The detonation went off right on schedule, taking out a number of palm trees... and three of his pursuers.

The second explosion caused Alvarez to drop Penelope's lipstick to the desk top. "What was that?" he asked aloud, a frown wrinkling his forehead. He exchanged glances with Franks, who got to his feet. "Perhaps the chauffeur brought along some friends... Luis!" he called into an intercom.

Alvarez's chief bodyguard hurried into the office. "Your Excellency, there are two people cutting through the window! Another blew up the helijet, and set off a bomb in the trees!"

"Where are the guards by the window?" his employer bellowed.

Luis spread his hands palms upward and shrugged. "I do not know, Your Excellency. One of the people at the window has a rifle..."

"¡Estúpidos!" Alvarez jumped to his feet and turned around. Behind the Minister was a painting of himself with his wife and children, draped in black crepe. Stepping up to it and pulling it aside, he revealed a safe, one with a old-fashioned button combination lock. Quickly punching in a number, he opened the safe and took out a gun, handing it to Franks. "Here is your weapon. Come with me." Following Luis, and with Franks at this side, Alvarez strode from the room.

Outside of Penelope's room, Brigitte kept a close watch, rifle in hand, while Parker cut through the plastic. She nudged him when the second blast went off, and so did a second loud siren, this one closer to their position. "That's Peter. He's in trouble." Glancing at what Parker had already accomplished, she asked, "If you cut across now, could she get out through a smaller hole?"

"Don' rush me," he muttered as he worked on a third cut, scowling at the impudence of the firefighter. "Milady h'is h'a del-lee-cate flow'r..."

"Who will be cut off at the stem if you don't hurry!" Brigitte hissed sharply. "Cut across at the top _now_! The hole should be big enough for her to get through!"

Growling in his throat, Parker turned the laser's path ninety degrees and started to cut across. It took only moments, and then he was pulling the plate away with a suction cup. As soon as it was away, Penelope's shapely leg, bare foot first, came sliding out of the hole. "Careful, milady. Th' top h'is still 'ot," Parker warned in a whisper.

"No matter, Parker," she said softly. She lay on her side as she slid the other leg through and her hips followed. Using one elbow to brace herself below, she pushed her torso through, then her head and arms followed. Just as she was clear of the window, the door within opened, and Luis and Franks burst through. Brigitte ducked down a bit, glancing into the room, and firing at them, causing them to duck to either side as Parker retrieved the extra Kevlar vest from her pack and helped Penelope into it.

"There's no time for this!" Penelope said sharply, waving her chauffeur away. "We must escape!" She glanced at Brigitte, who was still looking for a target within the room. Alvarez was advancing steadily, and Penelope pulled on the firefighter's arm. "Don't look at him! Don't look at his eyes! Come! We have no time!"

Brigitte turned her head toward Penny, and nodded. The three of them took off as fast as they could, down the path toward the beach, heedless of the optical trip wires that they were setting off, with Penelope's deft fingers fastening her Kevlar vest as they ran. Behind them, they could hear Alvarez bellow, "Luis! After them!"

The bulkier Luis tried to follow through the hole made by Parker, but found himself stuck around the armpits for several moments. Alvarez rained curses on him, in more languages than just Spanish, causing Franks to glance at him with an odd expression as he hurried from the room, in search of an easier exit.

Parker pressed a button on his telecomm, and Viktor, who was waiting for the signal, jumped. He signaled Scott and put the hydrofoil Rolls into gear, wincing at the clashing noise the transmission made as he did so, then feeling more confident as the machine smoothly increased speed. He headed for the lagoon, and was dismayed to see, not his comrades, but uniformed figures coming out of the palms and undergrowth, lying in wait for the IR operatives. He sighed, remembering Parker's words. Reaching over, he toggled a switch. _Perhaps I can scare them with the guns instead of killing them, _he thought as the central machine cannon's business end poked out from the camouflaged grille at the front of the vehicle. Then he smiled. _And after I make a pass, I can use the rear smoke canister. Or the rear laser cannon. Then turn again and drive up to the beach... yes. That will work._

Using the built-in sniper sight, he aimed for the sand near the guards' feet. As the guards turned to face him, he turned the headlights on using the "bright" setting, making it difficult for those on the beach to make out the car. Then he pressed down on the firing stud at the end of the three-quarter circle steering wheel. The machine cannon spat out round after round of bullets, kicking up the sand at the would-be ambushers' feet, driving them down the beach or into the surrounding greenery. Two or three of the men fired back, and Viktor felt a strange exhilaration as the bullets merely bounced off the car with a "pinging" noise. He brought FAB-1 around with a sharp turn, creating a strong wake that carried sea water high onto the beach. A grin crossed his pale features as he armed the rear laser, and made the rear smoke canister ready for deployment. All the while he kept an eye on the pink dot that was moving steadily toward the beach.

"All right, you bastards," he mumbled. "Take this!"

Aiming the laser upwards sharply, he pressed a switch and the bright beam lanced out, cleanly shearing off the tops of the palm trees as he drove along. The weight of the foliage took down several of the guards, and the rest had their hands full avoiding the heavy green rain. He reset the laser, made another sharp turn out in the lagoon, and headed back to pepper the remaining men with machine gun fire and blinding headlights. He watched the progress of the pink dot, then revved the engine, retracted the hydrofoils, and drove up onto the beach. Those few men left standing took potshots at the car as it skidded along after them, chasing them down the beach, machine gun fire nipping at their heels. Finally, Viktor came to the spot where he would intercept the pink dot, and he put on the brakes, fishtailing in the sand as he brought the car to a halt. Within moments, the two rescuers and their objective emerged from the shadows. Brigitte looked around curiously at the devastation, while Parker ran up to the Rolls, shouting, "H'Open h'up!" Viktor grinned, and obediently opened the gull-wing front and back doors on that side. Parker waited until Penelope was safely in the back seat, then urged Brigitte to join her. Once the tall blonde had done so, he piled into the front next to Viktor.

"Naow t' find th' Mick," he said with a grin, giving the doctor a friendly slap on the arm.

Brigitte pointed out to their left. "There he is!"

And there he was, running toward them, losing purchase in the sand and slowing as his wounds told their tale on his body and as he saw the black car ahead of him. But behind him, a tall man with a shock of blond hair stepped from the shadows as he passed. He raised his pistol and aimed it at the fleeing figure.

"Oh, dear Lord! Parker! Viktor! Hurry!" Penelope shouted, ignoring her penchant for using the agents' numbers. "It's Franks! Franks is behind him!"

Viktor put the car in reverse, and pulled around, heading straight for Peter. The Irishman put his hands up to shield his eyes, and Parker swore, then reached over to turn off the brights. His vision cleared, Peter took a few more steps then, without warning, fell to the sand clutching his leg.

"What happened?" Brigitte cried.

"Doesn't matter," Viktor snarled. He put the pedal down and FAB-1 shot forward, spraying sand behind it.

"Get between Franks and Peter," Penelope instructed.

"Yes, milady," Viktor answered. He raced Franks to the fallen operative, shooting past Peter and putting the bulletproof hide of the Rolls between him and his assailant.

"I'll get him," Brigitte called. Before Penelope could protest, she was out the door and running in a crouch toward Peter. With practiced ease, she pulled him into a fireman's carry and headed back toward the car, even as Franks aimed beyond it, targeting her. Viktor gritted his teeth and swung the car around backwards so that the front grille faced Franks. Parker turned on the bright lights, blinding the gunman, and pressed down on the machine gun's firing button, causing Franks to turn and run back into the shadows. Brigitte made it to the Rolls, and the two women managed to manhandle Peter into the car.

"What has happened?" Penelope asked, seeing Peter's pale face and hearing his labored breathing.

"Shot. In the leg," the Irishman whispered painfully. His trousers showed that he had been shot clean through the upper thigh, and blood was pouring from the wound, staining the seat beneath him.

Penelope gazed up at Viktor, who had turned around in his seat to assess the situation. "Doctor, we need you back here."

He nodded, and opened the driver's side door, ducking around the back of the car to enter at the still open rear passenger door. Parker slid across and into his proper seat, while Brigitte joined Parker up front, making room for Viktor. Parker closed up the car again, and at Penelope's command, set out into the lagoon.

"There is a first aid kit under your seat, Brigitte," Penelope stated. The firefighter ducked down and retrieved it, handing it back even as Parker activated the hydrofoils and guided the Rolls out to sea.

Back on the island, Alvarez cursed as he came down to join Franks on the beach. The mercenary turned to him and said, "I nailed one of them in the thigh. But that car..."

"Yes," Alvarez spat. "That accursed car. Our pigeon has flown." He shouted over his shoulder to the scratched and sore Luis, who was jogging to catch up with the two men. "Get the men into the helijet. Track the intruders down and use a missile on them! That should do more than just scratch the paint!"

"Si, your Excellency!" Luis passed Alvarez's instructions along, first in Spanish and then again in the local patois. Within moments, the remaining helijet rose from the airstrip far behind them and made its way out to sea. "I will direct the clean up operations," he informed his employer..

Alvarez shook his head. "No, Luis." He beckoned the guard closer then, as the bodyguard was within a meter of him, suddenly spun around to face him. Franks gasped as he saw Alvarez's eyes glow a bright, venomous yellow. Luis's gaze was caught by those orbs and he stopped in his tracks, staring back a surprised expression.

"You have failed me, Luis," said Alvarez. "And there is only one price for failure."

Franks watched with a sick fascination as Luis knelt down on the beach at his master's command, and as Alvarez directed him, the hapless guard raised his own gun to his own temple... and fired. The body fell face down, blood and brain matter from the forced suicide seeping into the clean sand.

Alvarez turned to Franks, who involuntarily took a step back. "Y-You're not Alvarez," he stammered, his voice hoarse.

"You are quite correct, Mister Franks," the man replied, giving him what would otherwise be a charming smile. "And I am sure you know my name by now. After all, I _am_ public enemy number one."

"You...You're B-Belah Gaat," Franks replied, swallowing convulsively. "The Hood."


	12. Caribbean Cliffhanger

_Author's Note: _Is Penelope really safe? And what about Jim Franks? Lots of suspense and angst in this one folks. All you Virgil fan-girls, don't hate me, please! My thanks to fellowriverrat for checking over my medical facts. And Hobbeth is back to betaread!

I do want to apologize for the time it took to get this chapter out. I was recently the victim of a vicious plagiarist on the MSN Groups. She stole a good portion of the beginning of this story and claimed it as her own, a situation that made it emotionally difficult for me to write much of anything (besides business letters). So far, MSN has been less than responsive to my formal complaints. As a result of this, my disclaimer will be changing, and I will be making this change in each and every chapter of all of my stories. If you are a writer of any stripe, please be picky about where you put your fictions and the number of places where you post them. You never know when some lowlife is going to take what's yours and say it's theirs.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Math Girl: **Yes, the true villain of the piece is revealed. His plans have yet to be fully explained, and that won't happen in this chapter either. As for Peter and Virgil? Read on.

**fellowriverrat: **You're not the only one who thinks he's lost his mind! LOL! Thanks for the good words on the multitasking, as you put it, and my use of John. It has been my intention from the start to make old Hoodie into a truly menacing foe for International Rescue. Thanks for telling me that I'm on the right track here. Poor Virgil is still as lovesick as ever, I'm afraid... ;P

**Hobbeth: **See what happens when you go on vacation? Thanks for the good word on Parker. I really wanted his loyalty to Penelope to show through. She's been in tough spots before, but never it seems where she was as vulnerable as she is in this situation, or where he has had to sit back, watch, and let things happen.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy, print, or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

In the lighted interior of the seagoing FAB-1, Lady Penelope sat in the farthest corner of the rear seat, her back pressed up against the door, Peter's carrot-topped head resting in her lap. She pressed a wad of gauze against his upper arm with one hand and unconsciously stroked his hair back and away from his pale, sweat-covered brow with the other. She lifted her eyes to watch Viktor. 

The doctor had taken a pair of scissors from the well-stocked first aid kit and first cut off the sleeve of Peter's black turtleneck near the shoulder, just below the Kevlar vest, then chopped off the black trousers near the hip. The bullet wound in his thigh was a nasty looking hole that gushed blood with every twitch of the Irishman's leg, and made the wide, glistening red welt on his arm look tame by comparison. Penelope swallowed hard and took a deep breath or two. Viktor quickly covered the leg wound with an absorbent dressing, padding it below with a generous wad of gauze in a spot where the seat itself would provide pressure. Then he handed Penelope a thick gauze square. "Please put pressure on the graze."

"Oh, yes. Of course, Doctor."

He looked through the kit again, then up at Penelope. "Do you have a blanket?"

"That shiny square there," she said, lifting her hand from Peter's forehead and pointing to a silvery piece of fabric. "That's a blanket."

"This?" Viktor asked, frowning as he picked up the three by three inch square.

"Yes. Just shake it out. It's made of Penelon."

Viktor did as he was told, and watched in amazement as the tiny square became a large, lightweight blanket. He covered as much of Peter with it as he dared, then frowned at the blood that was soaking through the dressing.

"I think the bullet may have nicked the femoral artery," he murmured. "I will have to apply pressure on it above the wound. Brigitte?"

The blonde turned at the mention of her name. "Yes, Doctor?"

"Can you lean over and apply pressure to the wound itself while I apply accupressure to the artery?"

"Yes, I can." The firefighter turned to kneel on her seat, her long arms reaching out, just able to touch the bloodied compress with her palm. She pressed down as Viktor shuffled up in the confined space towards Peter's waist. He undid the leather belt, then cut Peter's trousers open at the hip, pulling them back, slicing through the briefs, and exposing the groin. With sensitive fingers he probed for the strong femoral pulse. When he found it, he pressed the heel of his hand down, hard. Glancing up at Penelope, he said, "Milady, please time this for me and let me know when five minutes are up."

"I... I have no watch..."

"Don' worry, guv," Parker's voice said gruffly. "Ay 'ave h'it." The chauffeur glanced at the digital clock on the dash and made note of the time.

"Thank you, Parker," Viktor said gratefully. He continued to apply pressure, helping the bleeding to slow. "Are you still with us, Peter?"

There was a soft groan from the wounded man. "Yeah... I thin' so."

"Well, stay with us," Viktor admonished him, trying to sound jocular. "Tell Milady a story."

Penelope looked down into Peter's blue eyes as he tried to look back up at her. "Okay. A story... once 'pon a time, there was a boy call'd Scott," he began, his Irish brogue thick on his tongue. Penelope smiled and chuckled a little as he continued, "He wus a han'sum lad, wus Scott, an' always lookin' afteh th' ladies. One day 'e sez t' his mate, Pete, 'Pete, I'm gonna ask thet pretty lass o'er there t' dance.' An' so 'e did." Peter swallowed and his eyelids blinked closed. But he seemed to recover himself and, taking two deep breaths, he opened his eyes and spoke again. "Now whut Scotty-boy di'n't know wus thet th' pretty lass wus the daughter o' an ole frien' o' Pete's Da, an' th' two o' them, lad an' lass, had grown up tergetheh. Pete knew that th' lass had a temper like fire, as fiery as 'er long hair thet fram'd 'er face like an angel's halo. An' he di'n't know thet his mate wus in love wi' th' lass." Peter's voice began to fade, and his words to slur.

"Fayve minutes, guv," Parker intoned softly.

Viktor nodded and removed his hand. Brigitte pulled the blood-soaked gauze out from beneath the thigh and replaced it, then changed the dressing on top. "Give me another five minutes, please, Parker." The chauffeur nodded.

"Peter?" Penelope asked softly, bending down near his ear. "What happened next?"

Her question seemed to shake him from his lethargy. His voice strengthened. "Wha' happen'd next? Well, ole Scotty-me-lad put on his mos' charmin' smile an' waltz'd Melissa aroun' th' floor. An' when they come off th' dance floor, Scotty turns on th' charm. Brin's a glass o' wine, asks 'er t' dance again. Pete, he sees thi' an' thinks 'I gots t' put th' brakes on here'. So, he comes up behin' 'em when Scotty is standin' close t' Melissa, an' he pinches 'er on th' ass. O' course' Melissa thinks thet ol' Scotty-me-lad did it, an' she gives 'im an earful an' goes off, leavin' th' poor lad wonderin' wha' th' 'ell he did wrong."

Viktor frowned at the way the blood was still gushing from the wound, despite Brigitte's efforts. Before Parker called the five minute time limit, the doctor pulled off his own belt and wrapped it around Peter's thigh, using it as a tourniquet, tightening it to cut off the blood flow again. "Better to lose his leg than lose his life," he muttered under his breath.

Peter paused, and smiled slightly at his memories. He showed no sign of having heard Viktor. He was taking deeper breaths between phrases now, and his skin was paler, except for his leg, which looked blue. "Dem, but I'm cold," he murmured as he began to shiver. Penelope reached over to tuck the Penelon blanket a little closer around Peter's body, then signaled for Parker to raise the temperature in the car. She knew the rest of them would be uncomfortable very soon, but she'd rather have the able-bodied suffer a small bit if it would help the wounded.

"Fayve minutes, Doc," Parker intoned again.

"Thank you, Parker," the doctor replied. Brigitte pulled up the wad of gauze, and the sharp intake of breath through her teeth told the rest of the passengers that things did not look good.

Viktor pulled out a compact wrist blood pressure cuff and fastened it to Peter's right wrist. When activated, the cuff inflated, then slowly deflated, the clicking of its timer sounding loud in the car. At last, the cuff deflated all the way with an audible hissing, and a series of numbers appeared on the digital readout. Penelope glanced over at Brigitte, then again at Viktor. Brigitte turned her moist eyes down to Peter's leg and kept them there, avoiding the London agent's stare while she put fresh gauze on the wound. The doctor returned the aristocrat's gaze and shook his head solemnly. Penelope nodded a little, and turned her attention back to Peter. Smiling softly and brushing back his hair again, she said, "Surely the story didn't end there, Peter. Tell me more."

Peter took a deep breath, then another, and continued. "Well, after tha', Pete moved in an' swept th' lady off 'er feet. An' they got married an' Scotty-boy wus best man a' th' weddin'. But he never learn'd thet t'wus 'is fren' who pinched Melissa's ass."

"Did Melissa find out?" Penelope asked.

"No, I don' think she ever did," Peter said dreamily.

The quietly tense mood was shattered as Parker looked up. "Ay fink we 'ave h'a li'l problem...," he began, searching the sky and listening intently. The others in the Rolls listened, too, and heard a shrill whine, growing in intensity just before the Cockney shouted, " 'Old on!" He jerked the wheel and swerved wildly as behind them the sea erupted in a geyser of water and flame!

xxxx

Jim Franks lifted his gun to shoot the man in front of him, the man wearing the face of Carlos Esteban Alvarez. The man laughed and his eyes grew wide and glowed. The mercenary couldn't close his eyes, couldn't look away... and the next thing he knew, he was sprawled in a chair in Alvarez's office with no recollection of how he got there. His gun was on the desk, and Alvarez looked at him with an amused expression. Ramirez stood nearby, a data pad in his hand and an earphone with microphone in one ear. He glanced up as his employer began to speak.

"Did you have a nice little sleep, Señor Franks?" the man posing as Alvarez asked. Rising, he picked up the gun. "I think I will put this little toy away until I am ready for you to have it again." He walked over to the portrait, and opened the safe behind it, storing the gun inside. Then he returned to his desk and sat down again.

Franks's eyes narrowed and he sat up slowly, keeping his body situated so that he could move fast if he needed to. Ramirez glanced down at him and raised an eyebrow, then favored him with a sardonic smirk. "Your Excellency, I think that Señor Franks is a little on edge."

"I agree, Ramirez."

"Perhaps you should explain..."

"Perhaps. First, what is the status of the helijet?"

Ramirez held a hand up to the microphone as he rattled off a question in Spanish. There was a brief pause, and then, "They have caught up to the... car... and are beginning an aerial assault with missiles."

"Excellent." "Alvarez" pulled a cigar from his humidor, clipped off the end and lit it, then sat back, swiveling his chair around a bit. He put a hand behind his head and leaned back just a little, one ankle situated on the knee of the other leg. "It will not be long before the accursed car is destroyed, along with those inside. Then Tr... then International Rescue will wonder what happened to their beloved London agent and her companion. While they investigate, I will move ahead with my plans." He rolled his head lazily towards Franks and smiled. "Come now, señor. Ask your questions."

Franks licked his lips, glancing from one man to the other, finally letting his gaze rest on "Alvarez", who was now staring off into space. "Questions... okay. I've got some." He sat back in the chair and crossed his legs at the knee. "On the beach... that is, if I didn't imagine the whole thing... you said you were Belah Gaat, the Hood. If you are, what should I call you now?"

"You did not imagine what transpired on the beach, Mister Franks. But you may call me 'Your Excellency, Señor Alvarez'." The cigar smoker blew out a smoke ring. "For all intents and purposes, I _am_ Carlos Esteban Alvarez, Minister of Security to the World Government."

"What happened to the real Alvarez?" Franks asked cautiously.

"He lives." Alvarez swiveled the leather chair back around to face Franks. "He is here, under my control and command until he ceases to be useful."

"Did you kill his family?"

"What do you think? Alvarez begged me to let them go back to Columbia, so I did. Of course, there was an unfortunate 'accident' involving the helijet..." The false minister smiled again, amused. "What else do you want to know?"

Franks glanced up at Ramirez, who was talking softly to the men in the helijet. He jerked his head in the secretary's direction. "Where does he come into it?"

"Ah, Ramirez." At the sound of his name, the secretary focused on his employer for a brief moment, still continuing his conversation while listening to the two men talk. "Fernando here was... dissatisfied. Dissatisfied and disillusioned. He watched the strong, decisive man he had once known turn into a mere bureaucrat, no longer willing to make the harsh decisions needed to keep order in this world of ours. So, when I offered him the opportunity to join me, he jumped at it. And he has been very, very useful."

"So I see," Franks responded, glancing up at the secretary again. "So, what is your re..."

His words were cut off by a suddenly surprised Ramirez shouting, "¡Diablo!" He turned a frowning face to the man behind the desk. "Your Excellency, we have a problem..."

xxxx

"FAB-1 from Thunderbird One," Scott said smartly, a grim smile on his face. "I am on my way to your position. ETA, 2 minutes."

"Ay h'a-pree-shee-ate it," Nosey Parker replied in Scott's ear. "We'll trayh an' stay h'alayve fer ye... Deployin' smoke canister now."

"You do that, FAB-1," Scott tapped his earphone. "Base from Thunderbird One. I am going to FAB-1's assistance."

"F-A-B, Thunderbird One," Jeff replied from his office. "Thunderbird Two's ETA is twenty minutes."

"F-A-B." Scott turned his attention to his viewport. He could see the lighted bubble of FAB-1 weaving across what would normally be a calm sea, tendrils of smoke from the diversionary tactic wafting after it. The helijet was above and behind it, keeping pace, and a man with a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher was tethered to the open side door, leaning out to take potshots at the fleeing hydrofoil.

"FAB-1 from Thunderbird One. Douse that light!"

"No can do, Thunderbird One," Parker replied sourly. "Th' layght h'is needed bayh th' doc."

Scott muttered a curse under his breath. "F-A-B, Nosey. Just keep dodging while I give this guy a warning and take some of the heat off you." He manipulated the steering yokes, diving down, buzzing by the helijet and making the pilot momentarily lose control and altitude in sheer surprise, then pulling up to skim across the water, mere meters above its surface. The man with the rocket launcher now turned his attention to this new threat, and fired off a missile in Scott's direction. The explosive was fast, but Thunderbird One was faster, and the rocket exploded on the surface of the sea in the wake generated by the silver rocket plane's passing.

"So, that's the way it's going to be, huh?" Scott murmured. He reached over and activated his Gatling gun. Tracking the pink dot that was Lady Penelope, he plotted a course that would intercept the Rolls and its persistent pursuer. "Base from Thunderbird One," he called as he swung his 'Bird in a wide curve and headed back toward the action.

"Base here," Jeff's voice sounded in Scott's ear.

"I have been fired on. Requesting permission to use deadly force."

There was a pause, and a small sigh, then, "Permission granted."

"F-A-B, Base." Scott smiled grimly again as he increased both speed and altitude. His timing was perfect; he intercepted the helijet, gun blazing, passing it over it with mere meters to spare. The man with the rocket launcher slumped in his tethers and the weapon dropped into the sea. Scott turned again, a tighter turn this time, and intercepted the still moving helijet. FAB-1 had put some more space between it and its attacker, and Scott moved to a position just above the black aircraft, matching its speed precisely. He turned on his outside speakers. "This is Thunderbird One to helijet. Break off pursuit immediately or I will open fire again."

There was no response from the craft, but Alan's voice sounded in his ear. "Thunderbird One from Thunderbird Five."

"Reading you strength five, Thunderbird Five."

"The Pink Lady has been in touch and tells me that the pilots might not speak English. Patch me through to your speaker and I'll warn them off in Spanish."

"F-A-B... Sigma." Scott toggled a switch. "You're good to go."

Alan's voice rang out in fluent Spanish, basically giving the pilots of the helijet the same warning that Scott had. Scott noticed a movement below; the dead man was being cut from his restraining straps and his body dropped unceremoniously into the sea. Then another man, helmeted and wearing what must have been night vision goggles, took his place, aiming a heavy-duty, automatic assault rifle at the bright dot that was FAB-1. He fired and his bullets sent tracers into the night. Some of them reached their mark in the Rolls Royce's boot and rear bumper, only to be foiled by its tough, bulletproof hide.

Scott swore, then dropped his airspeed a little, pulling back and behind the helijet. That's when he noticed the blinking camera detector. "Damn! How long has that been on?" Squaring his shoulders, he hit the camera fogger, then retracted the Gatling gun and armed the launcher beneath Thunderbird One's belly. Usually it held the tough cahelium lances that he had used time and again to keep rocks and other debris from falling on a rescue site from above. Now it held a spread of minimissiles, each of them as deadly as any of the rockets that had been fired at FAB-1.

"You don't know how much I hate to do this," he muttered to himself. His thumb hovered over the firing button on his left steering yoke as he lined up his target, the fuel tank of the helijet. "Fire one."

The minimissile leaped from the launcher, heading for its target, while behind the helijet, Scott was already pulling up and away from the doomed aircraft. The helijet tried to put on more speed, to outrace the little projectile, but the effort was futile. There was a loud boom and one blossom of flame, then a second as the auxiliary fuel tank went up. The crippled craft fell like a stone, hull on fire, trailing smoke into the still dark sky.

The reaction in FAB-1 was muted at best. Brigitte, who had been watching, shielded her eyes with a small cry. Parker, who had been watching through his mirrors, voiced a soft and sibilant, "Yussss!" Viktor didn't look up; he was timing Peter's slowing pulse. Peter and Penelope gazed up through the smoky glass canopy at the lights of Thunderbird One as it moved overhead to pace the Rolls. "Scotty-me-lad," he whispered hoarsely.

"FAB-1 from Thunderbird One," Scott said, his voice sounding weary. "Rendezvous with Thunderbird Two at these coordinates. We'll get you all to a hospital as soon as possible."

"F-A-B, Thunderbird One. But 'urry."

"Downloading coordinates now."

Penelope glanced in concern down at the Irishman as he whispered, "Thirsty." He was breathing heavily now, each inhalation a struggle, each exhalation a noisy huffing.

"Doctor?" Penelope said. "There is an emergency rations kit under Parker's seat that may be reached from the back."

Viktor nodded and shifted so he could pull out the sealed metal box. He opened it, and handed a pouch of water to Penelope. She pulled off the straw, broke the seal on the small hole where the straw was to go, and held the drink to Peter's lips. He pulled on it once, and twice, then sighed. His eyes were heavy again, but he focused on Viktor and asked in a faint, hoarse voice, "Doc, am I gonna die?"

Viktor took a deep breath of his own and with a soft, rock-steady voice replied, "It looks that way, Peter."

With difficulty, the Irishman raised his right arm across his body, grasping Penelope's left wrist in his pale hand. She shook her arm just a bit to make him let go, and when he did, she slipped her hand under his and squeezed gently.

"Milady?" he breathed.

"Yes, Peter?" It took all of Penelope's self-control to keep her soft voice level.

"Tell... Tell my wee ones thet their Da loves 'em. Tell 'em I'm watchin' o'er 'em."

"I shall, Peter."

"An tell Scott thet I forgi'e him the pint. But he should drink one fer me wit' those brothers o' his."

Penelope smiled softly. "I will tell him."

"An'... promise me you'll tell my angel Melissa thet I love 'er. An' I wus thinkin' o' 'er at th' end."

Brigitte sniffed loudly. Penelope took a deep breath to calm her voice again and murmured, "I promise."

"But don' never tell 'em who t'wus thet pinch'd Melissa's ass."

Penelope chuckled despite herself. She swept her free hand up over his forehead and stroked back his hair, then bent down to whisper to him, "It will be our secret." The words were followed by an impulsive, gentle kiss on his cold, damp forehead.

"Fine," he breathed out, then he closed his eyes. He took a deeper breath than normal, then whispered, "An' tell th' boss... t'wus worth it."

Penelope swallowed and ruthlessly tamped down on her tears as the car became quiet, the only sounds that of Peter's labored breathing and Brigitte's soft sniffling. Doctor and aristocrat exchanged bleak glances once again, and Viktor murmured, "All we can do now is wait."

xxxx

"What is the problem, Ramirez?" Alvarez asked sharply.

"There is... a Thunderbird... Thunderbird One is attacking the helijet," Ramirez replied. He listened intently. "The craft has flown over the helijet, very close. The men are firing on it..."

"¡Estúpidos!" shouted Alvarez, exploding from his seat. "Tell them not to fire! Take pictures instead! Break off the assault on the car and get pictures of the Thunderbird attacking!"

Ramirez tried to relay the orders as quickly as he could, then he looked at Alvarez and shook his head. "Too late. They've fired a rocket at him. It missed."

"Have them take pictures of the Thunderbird and download them live," the false minister commanded. "This is too good an opportunity to pass up." He hit the intercom switch and shouted, "Jorge! Prepare for incoming images!"

The secretary spoke quickly into his mike and then listened for an answer. "He's coming back around... one of the men has a vidcamera... the Thunderbird is firing! He killed the man with the rocket launcher and the weapon is lost. The craft has passed them now."

"Excellent!" Alvarez's eyes gleamed with eagerness. He leaned toward Ramirez, hands flat on the desk. "What is going on now?"

"The Thunderbird is making a turn... he is coming back and is above them. He is warning them in English... now there is another voice, warning them in Spanish. They are cutting the dead man loose and one of them is firing on the car with a rifle..." Ramirez glanced up at Alvarez. "They say that the picture is gone... there is nothing but static... Aaauggh!" He pulled the earphone out violently. It bounced on the desk and slid off the other side. "The pilots reported a missile was launched from the Thunderbird. They were trying to outrun it then there was some cursing and a loud 'Boom'!" he explained, rubbing his ear. "I think the helijet was destroyed."

Alvarez nodded. He called into the intercom again. "Jorge! Did you get any footage?"

The computer expert's voice came back, sounding peeved. "Si, your Excellency, a few seconds. Though it is of poor quality, seeing as it is night."

"I will come down to see it in a few moments," Alvarez promised. He turned to Franks and Ramirez. "Well, gentlemen, we have a problem."

"We?" Franks asked, frowning. "I wasn't aware that I was part of this little scheme."

"You have no other option," said Alvarez. "Unless, of course, you prefer death... by your own hand."

Franks started at the threat, his mind casting back to the scene with Luis. He slumped back into his seat. "When you put it that way... you can count me in."

"Good. Fernando, sit down. We have much to plan."

xxxx

"Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird One. What's your ETA to the rendezvous point?"

"Thunderbird One from Thunderbird Two. Rendezvous in ten minutes."

"As soon as you arrive, drop the pod. FAB-1 has a priority patient and there's no time to waste."

"F-A-B. Who's the patient?"

"I'm not sure, but I do know it's not the Pink Lady or Nosey."

Virgil breathed a sigh of relief, then unbuckled the straps to his command chair. "John," he called, using his wrist communicator.

John's frowning face appeared on the watch face screen. "Uh... Delta? You know we're supposed to use code names while we're on a rescue. Especially in transmissions."

His older brother had the grace to look sheepish. He ran his hand through his chestnut hair. "Sorry about that; I guess I forgot. Anyway, how are things in the sickbay?"

John's face brightened. "Good. Ship shape. We're prepared for whatever is thrown at us."

Virgil smiled. "Great! Now, can you come up here and take over the controls so I can..."

The Thunderbird Two pilot didn't get any farther than that. 'What?" John shouted, his frown returning. "You want me to do what?"

Virgil sighed and tried to explain. "I want to be the one to meet FAB-1 in the pod. So I need you to come up and take over the controls for me."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm not," Virgil said, his tone turning irritated. "Now just get up here and take over!"

"Why?" John countered, his voice just as irritated. "And you'd better have a helluva good reason, _Delta_. You know damn well I'm not as good a pilot on Two as you are."

Virgil stopped cold. Above all else, he did not want to tell his brother how he felt about Lady Penelope. He scowled at John through the watch, then put his straps back on. "All right. You win. You'd better get back there now. We're three minutes to rendezvous."

"F-A-B," John said, still angry. "I'll let you know when I'm situated."

"You have less than three minutes."

John hrumphed, and grabbed a medikit and a stretcher. He hurried to the lift that would give him access to the pod. Once inside, he turned on the interior lights then raced over to the Firefly and hopped inside, laying aside his equipment and buckling himself into one of the seats. And not a moment too soon, because he heard Virgil's cold voice in his ear calling, "Dropping pod... now!"

John's stomach lurched as the pod and its contents fell several meters to the sea. _That was a hell of a lot rougher than it needed to be. I'll let Dad know about this during our debriefing._

Once the pod had stabilized, he climbed out of the Firefly. The big door was already opening, swinging slowly down into the water to create a sturdy ramp for FAB-1. John did a double-take as the matte black Rolls Royce floated towards him, hydrofoils retracted, using its own momentum to ease up to the ramp. Once the four front tires hit the ridged surface of the door, Parker put the car into gear and powered it inside. John took a moment to hit the switch that would button up the pod, then rushed over to the Rolls.

There was a hiss as both sets of gull wing doors opened on the passenger side. A tall, well-built blonde got out of the front seat and hurried to the back, not sparing him even a glance. John opened up the antigravity stretcher and activated it, drawing it with him. Now the blonde looked at him as Parker joined him from the other side, and John caught a glimpse of blood inside the car, lots of blood; it seemed to be everywhere and over everything. A dark-haired man was performing CPR on someone under a light Penelon blanket, someone whose skin was paler than paper. John dove into the extensive medikit and pulled out the portable defibrillator, turning it on and passing it to the blonde, who nodded and gave it to the man. As she pulled away to be clear of the thrashing body, the astronaut could catch a glimpse of bright red hair.

"Aw dammit! Not Pete!" he moaned. He moved toward the door, and on the far side of the back seat, he could see the dusty, disheveled form of Lady Penelope. Their gazes locked, and for the first time since he had known her, John noticed a single tear tracing down her dirty cheek.


	13. Penelope's Drama

_Author's Note: _Wrap-up of the Penelope rescue, but are such things ever really over? All you Virgil fan-girls, don't hate me, please! My thanks to fellowriverrat for checking over my medical facts, to Amanda Tracy for being my sounding board, to Math Girl for telling me about the "battlefield bandages" (under real life testing right now), and Hobbeth for advice and betareading.

The reference to Lady Penelope's first yacht, Seabird, is from _Lady Penelope: Elegance, Charm, and Deadly Danger_, "Mr. Steelman, Part 6", printed in _Thunderbirds The Comic_, issue 29, November 14-27th, 1992; pp. 26-27, and _Lady Penelope: Elegance, Charm, and Deadly Danger_, "Mr. Steelman, Part 7", printed in _Thunderbirds The Comic_, issue 30, November 28th-December 11th, 1992; pp. 26-27. The "radar jammer" comes from the comic book story, "Talons of the Eagle", printed first in _TV Century 21_, issues 66-72, weekly April 23-June 4, 1966, and reprinted in _Thunderbirds: The Comic_, issues 10-13, bi-weekly February 22 -April 3, 1992.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**fellowriverrat: **Thanks for your good words on Chapter 12 and its realism. You were a great help! And I'm sure Virgil would say "Thank you" for the slap alongside the head if he weren't so smitten.

**Mad-Friend: **Welcome to the story! I hope you find chapter 7-13 just as gripping as the first six. Thank you for your kind words on Lou's drawl and my attention to detail. Where do I get my ideas? I read a lot, especially mysteries, science fiction, and comic books.

**ms. imagine: **Thanks for your good words on chapter 12. I know the chapter is right when the reader gets emotionally involved. As for Virgil, stay tuned.

**Math Girl: **Well, this chapter will reveal the fate of Peter Riordan, Agent 53.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy, print, or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

Ramirez took the chair next to Franks. Alvarez returned to his own seat, swiveling it around to face the two men and steepling his fingers. "Now. The pilots of the helijet did not report the destruction of that accursed car. And since the helijet seems to have been destroyed, we can assume that Lady Penelope made good her escape. This poses a problem, because I am sure she will tell her superiors just who I am the moment she is in contact with them. I will have to step up my plans accordingly." 

"Which are...?" Franks asked.

"Blackmailing International Rescue to the point where they have to choose between exposure, government control, or ceasing operations," Alvarez replied.

"What does this accomplish?"

Alvarez's face became hard and his eyes narrowed as he leaned forward. "Revenge. And the acquisition of their technology."

Franks frowned. "Is that what the disk that Lucinda Myles had was all about? Getting information on IR to use as blackmail?"

"Yes. I needed to show their commander I was serious about my goals. After all, he was not to know that I was Belah Gaat, his old enemy."

Franks leaned forward in surprise. "You already _know_ who their commander is?" he asked, incredulous.

Alvarez sat back. "Yes. I have known for quite some time. I have tried numerous times to obtain plans to the technology that makes the Thunderbirds unique and powerful. But I have failed. So, I am trying a different tack; playing on the fears of the man who runs International Rescue. The fear that his operations would be exposed. He has very good reasons for keeping his identity and the location of his base a secret, the advanced technology being only one of them."

"Who is he?"

The minister stared at Franks for a moment, then began to chuckle. "Brazen, aren't you? I am not prepared to tell you. Even though you are now part of my operations, I still do not trust you, Señor Franks. You are too much of a maverick."

Franks sat back again. "Don't you think that the world might object to International Rescue coming under government control? Under_ your _control? After all, these poor saps are pretty popular because they'll rescue just about anyone, regardless of who or where they are. An International Rescue under government's thumb would be more... selective."

"His Excellency has prepared for that," Ramirez said, finally joining the conversation. "You heard him tell the men in the helijet to take pictures? If the film is usable, it will be released to a website that specializes in defaming and vilifying International Rescue. They have the technology to scan the Internet, to discover when and where rescues have taken place and put their own spin on them. Then, their information is leaked to the legitimate press. So far, the press has been uncooperative in tarring the reputation of International Rescue. But this film, when properly... edited, may hold the key to sullying their pristine character."

"By the time I am through with them, the world will be clamoring for the government to take control," Alvarez asked. "The attack on the helijet may work in our favor, as will the evidence from Lady Penelope's visit. The world will want to know how my personal helijet was blown up and by whom. But still..."

"But what, your Excellency?"

Alvarez turned to Franks. "You say you are sure that the Myles woman would have kept the file?"

Franks's eyes widened and he nodded, as smile slowly spreading over his face. "Luci? Yes. Absolutely. She's a terrible pack rat when it comes to information. And that kind of sensitive data? She'd hang onto it until she could find a way to get it to International Rescue."

"Good. Then you are to find her and retrieve both the disk... and Ms. Myles as well."

"How? I mean, we don't exactly have transportation..." Franks let his voice trail off as the two other men exchanged irritated glances. "I guess you do have a way to get off this island."

"His Excellency has prepared for every contingency," Ramirez said haughtily. He turned to his employer. "Shall I take the yacht?"

"Yes, Fernando. Mr. Franks may be wanted for questioning in Unity City in regards to what happened in the warehouse district, but you can take him by sea to the airport at Staniel Cay. Charter a jet for him there. You do have other identities, do you not, Señor Franks?"

Franks fidgeted a bit, then admitted, "I have a couple."

"Use one of them." Alvarez stretched, stubbing out the remainder of his cigar. "When you have seen Señor Franks on his way, return here with a rented aircraft. We can fetch the yacht back later. But first, we must rest. International Rescue will not be able to make any moves until Lady Penelope contacts their headquarters, and very likely not until their lead Thunderbird returns to their base."

"What will you do, your Excellency?" Ramirez asked, frowning.

Alvarez smiled, an expression that made a shiver run up Jim Franks's spine. "What will I do? Why, I will report a night-time invasion of my home and property. There is a great deal of evidence to begin an investigation. A very public one."

Franks stood. "If your Excellency doesn't object, I'll be heading to bed. I'll have to work fast to secure Lucinda. She is tenacious when she wants to get something done, and I'm sure that getting in touch with International Rescue is near the top of her list."

"Will you need any assistance? Fernando can put you in touch with some... hired help. Or you could use the same ones from your first endeavor."

"No. As I said before, I know how she thinks. I can take her by myself."

"Very well." Alvarez waved a hand. "You are dismissed, Señor Franks. Sleep well."

Franks nodded and left. Ramirez excused himself and followed. Alvarez stood and looked out the window. It would be dawn in a few hours, and he knew he should rest. But a few hours of meditation would have to suffice. _Franks does not realize it, but the Myles woman has already given the information to International Rescue. After all, Tracy was there and if all the reports are correct, and they are old friends, she could not have missed the fact that the Tracy family is International Rescue. And if they are the kind of friends I believe they are, she would be as good a bargaining chip as Creighton-Ward._

xxxx

"Thunderbird Two from Epsilon," John called into his boom mike. "You can retrieve the pod." Virgil acknowledged the command curtly, and John came around to the other side of the Rolls with his stretcher, knowing it would be easier to take Peter out by the shoulders than by the legs. He left the medikit with Brigitte.

Parker opened the rear doors on the driver's side and helped a stiff Penelope out of the Rolls. Viktor continued to try to bring Pete back, intubating him and putting him on a portable ventilator. The Irishman's chest went up and down in a rhythm resembling breathing, and the doctor had also added an IV, pushing fluids into the man through the carotid artery. Penelope hoped that there was still a spark of life left in the redhead.

She straightened slowly, and then hissed as her feet hit the cold metal decking of the pod.

"Milady?" Parker asked, his voice full of concern.

"My feet, Parker. I believe they will need some medical attention." All eyes but Viktor's turned ceiling-ward as the mighty engines of Thunderbird Two became audible and a loud metallic "clank" sounded. There was a quick shudder of their surroundings, then the feeling of rising, as in an elevator. The VTOL engine noises changed their orientation from above to below, and then ceased, being replaced instead by a roar from behind that dwindled down into a quieter hissing. Penelope noticed all this as Parker guided her to the driver's seat to rest until she could be transported to the sickbay herself.

"What's his number?" John asked quietly as he helped Viktor position a backboard beneath the limp form.

Penelope started. "His... his number? Oh, yes. He is Agent 53." _I cannot believe that just a day or so ago I called him that and nothing else. Now it seems so... impersonal._

With John on one end and Brigitte on the other, they moved Peter to the antigravity stretcher. "Delta, call in to base and have them give you the details on Agent 53. Contact information and everything. We're bringing him up to sickbay now."

"F-A-B," Virgil said. "How is Penny?"

"She's in much better shape than Agent 53 is right now," John retorted. "Just concentrate on getting us to a hospital."

There was a brief pause, then Virgil replied coolly, "F-A-B."

Penelope and Parker watched as the doctor, the firefighter, and the astronaut accompanied the wounded man to the door that led to the small elevator. Parker sighed, and his employer looked up at him. He glanced back down. "H'It doesn' look good, Milady."

"I know, Parker. I know." She peeked over the driver's seat at the back of the car. "FAB-1 will need a good deal of cleaning and..."

'Tha's not what Ay meant, Milady... an' ye know h'it," Parker said with a fatherly warning.

She sighed. "Yes, Parker. I am worried about Peter, too. If he doesn't pull through, I..." She paused, took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders. "Well, there is no use dwelling on that now. Cross that bridge when we come to it. Right, Parker?"

"H'Of course, Milady. An' 'ere comes Mister John."

John was just climbing the steps that took him from the lift to the main floor of the pod. He saw Parker waiting stolidly by the driver's side door, then Penelope's head popped out to watch him as he approached. He had never seen her so disheveled. Her usually perfectly coifed hair was mussed; she had smears of dirt and blood on her face. As he approached he noticed the bare and dirty feet, the blood on her rumpled designer dress, what of it he could see under the Kevlar vest she still wore. Still, he smiled to see her.

"Hello, Lady Penelope. I'm here to take you and Parker up to the crew's quarters. Our little sickbay is a bit crowded right now. Let me take a look at your feet, then help you off with that stylish vest..."

Both Parker and Penelope started at his mention of the Kevlar. Parker colored, and began to remove his, while his employer looked down and said lightly, "Oh, this old thing? To tell the truth, I had forgotten I still had it on. It is _so_ comfortable. You know it is absolutely a fashion must in the circles where I have been traveling lately." She began to unfasten it, bringing the attention of John's sharp eyes to the broken and dirty fingernails and the blood on her arms.

"Are you hurt anywhere besides your feet?" he asked as he examined each one, gently brushing off the remaining sand. He noted the deep scratches on the ankles and the sides of the feet as well as the small puncture on the sole of one foot and the cut near the heel of the other.

"Physically? No, not really. Just sore and scraped from sliding through a small window opening. However, I am worried about Peter."

John's blue eyes met hers frankly. "I'll be honest, Lady P. I don't think he'll make it. That doctor..."

"His name is Viktor."

"Thank you. Viktor is trying to pump Peter full of fluids and he's using one of those battlefield bandages to staunch the wound. But I think Peter has already lost too much blood. We're on the way to the hospital." He glanced up at Parker. "Parker, give me a hand here. We can make a chair from our arms and carry Penelope up to the crews' quarters. It will be easier to treat her where we can properly wash the dirt off of her feet."

"Rayght, Mister John."

The two men clasped hands beneath Penelope's thighs, and around her back, while for her part, Penelope put her arms over their shoulders. Thus, they lifted the aristocrat and carried her carefully to the little elevator.

"What cover story shall we give to the hospital?" she asked as they rode upwards.

"Father has been thinking about that. We'll see what he has to say when we get upstairs. By the way, what's the name of the Valkyrie that came along with you?"

"That is Agent 87, and her name is Brigitte. She is a firefighter."

"Oh, that explains why she's helping Viktor. She's probably had some extensive first aid training."

By now they had reached the crew's quarters. John and Parker gently deposited their burden into a chair and John took an emesis bowl that he had already prepared to the small washroom to fill it with warm water. Penelope glanced at the medikit lying on the table beside her and smiled sadly. "This caper did not go off as planned, did it, Parker?"

"Ay wouldn't say thet, Milady," Parker responded. "We did pull ye h'aout, an' h'in one piece."

John returned with the water, walking carefully as not to slosh it. He put a thick towel in the floor, and knelt before her. But before he began to treat her, she asked, "Has anyone told Scott about Peter?"

The blue eyes met again briefly, then John looked back down. "No, not yet."

A sudden beeping from John's wrist telecomm caught their attention. "Epsilon from base. What's the hold up? Is the Pink Lady secure?"

John activated his communicator and spoke into it. "Base from Epsilon. The Pink Lady is secure, Commander. We're just attending to her now."

"F-A-B, Epsilon. Put her on for me, will you?"

"F-A-B, Commander." John removed his watch and handed it over to Penelope. "Here. Someone wants to talk to you."

"Thank you, John." She looked into the watch face and said, "Commander from Pink Lady, go ahead."

Jeff smiled. "Am I glad to see you! What is your situation?"

"One of my operatives is in grave condition," she said succinctly. "I myself am being treated for cuts and abrasions on my feet. Otherwise, we are well. What is the overall situation?"

"You are en route to a hospital in Unity City. ETA, three minutes. We are treating this as a rescue, so here is your cover story. You will need to share it with Parker, the doctor and with the wounded man as soon as he regains consciousness and is lucid. You were sailing in your yacht, _Seabird_, when you were attacked by... for lack of a better word... pirates. They demanded your jewels and money, and scuttled the ship when they left as to leave no evidence. You called International Rescue and we came to your aid. End of story."

Penelope nodded. It was not so far-fetched, even in these modern times. There were still rogue bands of criminals, especially in the Caribbean, who plied a violent trade of piracy, preying on the rich who dared to sail the waters of the tropics without the proper protection. The World Aquanaut Security Patrol was trying to get a handle on these little bands, who used small, very fast speedboats to carry out their crimes. They hunted in small packs, three or four boats at a time, and often sank the ships they attacked, giving WASP the unenviable choice of saving the people on the sinking ship or following the small boats. And if circumstances allowed them to follow the fleeing small craft, the pirates would split up, giving WASP the headache of deciding which boat to follow. The chase might net them some of the smaller fry, but the bigger fish were always protected... and rarely caught.

"I understand, Commander. The doctor was talking to me about a new research project he had in mind. And Peter was a friend of Parker's, just along for the ride. He tried to engage the pirates and was shot. Would that suffice?"

"Yes, very much so. I chose _Seabird _over _FAB-2 _because..."

"Because it has already been destroyed, and no one else knows about that. What shall I say about Brigitte?"

"It would be wise to have her wait with Thunderbird Two. She can come into the city later. I'm making arrangements to that end."

"Very good. I shall impart to my colleagues their excuses for appearing with me, and for our wounded man's injuries. Will I see you soon?"

"Yes. Once things are settled in Unity City."

Penelope paused. She was unfamiliar with the code names that Jeff had given his sons, with the exception of John's, which she had just heard. She searched for a way to ask the question without revealing Scott's name. _Ah, I have it. _"Commander, have you told your lead pilot about the situation yet?"

Jeff sighed. "No, but I am about to."

"Good. He should know as soon as possible." She paused again, then said in an urgent tone. "Commander? There is something you should know about the man I was visiting. Something very important."

"What is that?"

"He is not the man he seems to be. He is our old enemy... the Hood."

Jeff's eyes opened wide in shock and his mouth dropped open for a moment before his jaw snapped shut. "You are sure?"

"Yes. I vividly remember his eyes boring into me just before I passed out."

An expression of anger tempered by resolution passed over his face, and he asked tersely, "What about the real minister? Is he dead?"

Penelope shook her head. "Unknown. I am not sure how Gaat found out who I was, but he did, and he acted quickly. I am fortunate that my fellow operatives acted just as quickly."

Virgil's voice came over the intercom. "We have reached the hospital. Please prepare for landing and disembarking."

John looked up at her. "I've finished bandaging your feet, but they should be seen by the doctor. "C'mon, Parker. Let's get her down to the pod."

"We are at the hospital, Commander. I must go."

"F-A-B, Pink Lady. Base out."

There was a gentle bump as Thunderbird Two settled to the ground. "Everyone in the pod," Virgil called back through the intercom. Within a moment, the man himself appeared. By this time, John had donned a reflective visor and had made the same sort of carrying "chair" with Parker that they had used to bring Penelope up to the crew's quarters. Virgil stepped in and was about to say something when John jerked his head and told him, "We've got things covered here. Why don't you give the doctor a hand with his patient?"

Virgil frowned, and was about to protest, but Brigitte came to the door. "Viktor needs some help with Peter." She put a hand on Virgil's arm. "Please come help."

The pilot's face cleared and he nodded, leaving the room and following Brigitte to the sick bay. John watched him go then said, "Okay, Parker. Upsy-daisy!"

As they lifted Penelope into the air, she murmured to her chauffeur, "I assume you heard what the commander said about our cover story, Parker?"

"Yus, Milady."

"I am sure that Viktor will be engaged with helping Peter when we get to the hospital proper, and the doctors will be engaged with my own injuries. So, if you have a chance to see him first, please impress our 'cover' on the doctor as soon as is feasible."

"O' course, Milady."

They were now in the pod, and as Virgil, wearing the same kind of visor as his brother, opened the door, Penelope looked at the floating stretcher and said a little prayer for the occupant. She no longer put as much stock in prayer as she used to, but it wouldn't hurt, and indeed, might be of help.

xxxx

"Thunderbird One from base. Come in, Thunderbird One."

"Thunderbird One reading you five by five. Go ahead, base."

"Alpha, you are to fly to the coordinates that I am downloading. Once there, you will put Thunderbird One in a hangar, change into civvies, and drive into the city with Agent 38. She will be waiting for you."

Scott looked puzzled. "This is unusual, Commander. May I ask why?"

Jeff's face looked very weary and very old at that moment. "You should be aware that one of our operatives was badly injured during the undercover action. The injured agent was your friend, Agent 53."

"Peter?" Scott breathed, his eyes growing wide with shock.

Jeff nodded. "Yes, Peter. Your assignment right now is to bring his wife to the hospital, as quickly as you can. I'm downloading the contact information. He...it... it's not good."

Scott swallowed, and switched his flight pattern to bring him to the coordinates his father had sent. "Should I call ahead?"

"I'll leave that up to you, Alpha. Either way, it's going to be a shock."

_You don't know the half of it, Dad._ "I'll get her there as quickly as possible. Thunderbird One, out."

Jeff's picture winked out and Scott slammed a hand on the side of his seat. "Damn it all to hell! This shouldn't have happened! Now what do I tell Melissa? I don't even know if she knows about Pete's involvement in IR!"

He looked ahead and saw that he was coming to the outskirts of the city. "Good thing that radar jammer is working. I'd hate for Unity City's air enforcers to come after me. Especially since I'm landing... now."

The small airstrip belonged to a subsidiary of a subsidiary of a subsidiary of Tracy Industries. It was actually a local air transport company, one of two dozen or so similar terminals that were scattered around the world. Though it was true that the company did business and usually made money, the true purpose was to provide a quick hiding place for the Thunderbirds when necessary. Scott came in slowly, dropping down to mere meters from the ground in front of the largest hangar. Tapping in a code in his onboard computer and hitting "send", he watched with satisfaction as the hangar door opened. A movement to his left caught his eye and he glanced over to see a dark car pull into the premises. _Must be Agent 38. Hope he or she knows their way around Unity City._

He guided his 'Bird into the hangar and set her down at the far end to make room for Thunderbird Two, should she be directed there. He printed off the address and phone number. Then he shut down all of the systems other than the automatic protection charge, and changed into his civvies, making sure he had his satellite phone along. Then he ran to the other end of the hangar, punched in a code to lock it up, and ducked under the door while it came slowly down. The car's lights blinked twice, signaling him as to its existence, and Scott jogged over. He was surprised to see an older woman, petite and dark-skinned, waiting in the driver's seat.

"Agent 38, at your service, sir," she said, her voice sounding like she came from somewhere in the area. She extended her hand. "You may call me Renée."

"Scott," he replied, shaking her hand. "Do you know where we are going?"

"To the home of Peter and Melissa Riordan. I was told, however, that you would have the address."

"Here it is." Scott handed over the paper and watched as Renée plugged the data into her onboard GPS system. The small screen showed her the fastest way to get to their destination. She handed back the paper, and pulled out of the compound, stopping long enough to key in a code at the entry. The fence closed behind them automatically, but they were well on the road before it clanged shut.

"I'm to call ahead," Scott explained. He dialed the phone number he had been given. There were three rings, three long moments when Scott's mind flitted through what he should say, what he could say, to the wife of his good friend. Then the phone answered, and a sleepy woman, face freckled from the sun and dark, tousled red hair framing her face, appeared on his screen.

"Hullo? Who is this?"

"Melissa? It's me, Scott. Scott Tracy."

"Scott? What the hell are you doing here? And why are you calling at this godawful hour?"

Scott took a deep breath. "Melissa, you've got to trust me. Can you find someone to watch your kids?"

Melissa rubbed the sleep from her eyes, one at a time. "Why? What's the matter?"

"It... It's Pete. Something's happened to Pete. I'm coming with a friend to get you and take you to the hospital..."

"Peter? Hospital? What happened?" Now Melissa was wide awake. "Tell me, Scott! What happened?"

"I can't explain right now, but I'll be there in..." He turned to Renée, who mouthed, "Ten." Then he turned back to Melissa. "Ten minutes. Please, Mel, get dressed and find someone to watch the kids."

"I don't know if I can find someone, but I'll be dressed when you get here." She was moving now and the phone's picture jerked around as she did. "See you in a few. Bye."

The call cut off, and Scott leaned back, letting his breath out in a steady stream. Renée glanced over at him. "I can watch the children if she has no one else."

Scott gave her a wan smile. "Thanks. I'll have to try and impress on her that you're okay." He shook his head. "God, why did this have to happen?"

"Why does anything happen?" Renée asked simply. "It's life. People live, people die, the world goes on. It's what you do with the day that matters. From what I have heard, Peter did his very best with this day."

"I guess so. I'll need to hear the whole story," Scott replied. "Then I have to figure out what parts of it I can tell Melissa."

xxxx

Penelope was quite right about the hospital. She was treated by the emergency room doctors, but Peter was taken elsewhere by Viktor. Parker stayed outside the curtained alcove where she was being treated, while John and Virgil went back to Thunderbird Two. She didn't so much hear it lift off as she heard the remarks and response of those who were watching it lift off and fly away. She wasn't sure where they were going; but they had obviously received orders and some of those concerned Brigitte.

A policeman came to see her and she gave a statement, feigning a foggy memory about details due to fright. Her injuries, she explained, where caused by slipping on the deck while they were trying to escape the pirates at first. It was, after all, her boat, and she felt comfortable enough to go barefoot. _A passable lie,_ she thought, _to anyone who does not know me well._

"Parker?" she called during one of the moments when she was alone.

The chauffeur came in. "Yus, Milady?"

"Find where Viktor has taken Peter. The nurses are looking for some stockings or slippers for me so I won't ruin the bandages on my feet. I want to see Peter myself when they are through."

"Yus, Milady." He left the alcove, and left the curtains opened enough for Penelope to see what was going on. A priest went by, and two nurses, one pulling a gurney with a large elderly man on it, the other pushing. Doctors, injured people, a veritable parade of misery and hope passed by her doorway. Suddenly, she called out, "Scott!"

Scott stopped and backed up, holding up one finger to a white-faced Melissa. He poked his head into Penelope's alcove, and said, "I'll be back, Lady P. I'm taking Melissa to see Pete."

"Go on then," she responded. A nurse excused herself as she slipped by him with a pair of white cotton socks for Penelope. "I shall join you momentarily."

Scott nodded and disappeared. The nurse helped Penelope with the socks, sliding them carefully up over the dressings. The aristocrat asked, "May I see the man who was brought in with me? I would like to know how he is doing."

"Certainly. I will bring a wheelchair." The nurse was a good as her word, for a moment after she left she was back with a wheelchair, and an orderly to push it. She helped Penelope off the examining table and into the chair, then told the orderly, "Take her to the third floor. The surgical wing. Ask for Dr. Solokov's patient." He nodded, and away they went.

Up two floors in the staff and patients' elevator, then down a long, quieter corridor. Through two doors, and Penelope could see Parker standing outside a room. For the first time since they had become partners, her chauffeur looked old and worn. He lifted his eyes and met hers just as the orderly brought her near. "Ay'll take h'over, may gude man," he said to the orderly, who nodded and left.

"Parker?" she asked quietly as he hesitated. He dropped his eyes and shook his head, then wheeled her quietly into the room.

Penelope had an impression of white, and red, and black. The white was the sheets that covered Peter to the chin and the color of his skin, like paper or chalk. The red was the corona of red hair that framed Melissa's face as she leaned close to whisper something inaudible into her husband's ear. Black was the hair of Scott Tracy, standing behind her, watching her with a face full of pain and eyes full of pity. And black was the collared shirt of the priest who was administering the Anointing of the Sick, formerly known as the Last Rites. That was when Penelope realized that a crucial sound was missing from the scene: the sound of the ventilator, making Peter breathe.

She was suddenly hit with the full scope of the situation, and she gave a little gasp. Then she shut her eyes tight and fought with the tears that sprang to them. The tears won, and they began to course freely down her face.

Peter Riordan was dead.


	14. Tragedy's Aftermath

_Author's Note: _Fallout from Peter's death both physical and emotional. All you Virgil fan-girls, don't hate me, please! The name I use for Kyrano's wife and Tin-Tin's mother is taken from my fic, _The Retainer_. My thanks to fellowriverrat for checking over my medical facts, and Hobbeth for advice and betareading.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Claudette: **A good man who will be missed by his colleagues and whose death will send ripples throughout International Rescue.

**fellowriverrat: **I know it was tough to like the chapter; the death of a character that you grow to like is never fun. But thanks for your good words about the emotional impact of the chapter. You're right about Penelope in many ways. I think John will want to slap Virgil when he finally finds out what's going on. And the answer to your question is in this chapter.

**Math Girl: **I think she will think twice, and about more than what she can and can't do and who she does it with.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy, print, or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

Virgil paced in the cockpit of his 'Bird, secreted in the same huge hangar as Thunderbird One. The night sky was beginning to show signs of brightening into dawn, but neither he nor John could see it from inside the cavernous building. 

"I hope Scott gets back here soon with Penelope," he said as he paced. "We need to be off these premises before daybreak."

"I'm sure he will be, though how he's going to be able to pull himself away from Peter when he's in such grave condition, I don't know," John remarked, shaking his head both at the idea and at his brother's hyperactive movement.

"It may be easier than you think," came a third voice. Both men turned to see Brigitte hesitantly enter the cockpit. John had offered her the shower facilities of the crews' quarters and she had accepted. She was wearing the same dirty clothes she had worn all night, and was wringing dry her long blonde tresses. As the men watched, she neatly tucked her locks up into a turban she created from the towel in her hands.

John got up to offer her his seat. "I don't think we were properly introduced, though Penelope told me your name. I'm John, and this is Virgil. You're Brigitte, right?"

She smiled at him as she sat down. "Yes, my name is Brigitte. I am also known as Agent 87."

"Why did you say what you did about our... fellow operative, Scott? Why might it be easier for him to leave?" Virgil asked.

She looked down at her hands as she spoke. "Because Peter is dead."

"Dead?" "Dead! How do you know?"

Brigitte sighed. "I was there. No matter what Viktor did, he could not get Peter to breathe on his own. So he did what he could to keep the body alive until he could confirm brain death, and so that Peter's organs could be harvested, if that was his wish." She looked up and her gaze focused on something far away. "I am a firefighter. I have seen a lot of death. Death from smoke inhalation, carbon monoxide poisoning, from fire itself, even from injuries like broken necks, or gunshot wounds. It all affects you to some degree, but more so when the person is someone you've worked with. The strangers are easier to take, unless..."

"Unless?" John prodded.

She gazed at him, her light blue eyes boring into his own. "You know. You of all people _must_ know. Unless you feel you have not done everything you could, that you..."

"That you arrived too late to save them," John said softly, finishing her sentence.

Brigitte smiled slightly. "So, you _do_ understand."

"Only too well."

Virgil nodded in agreement as he stopped his pacing. He leaned back against his control console, folding his arms. "So, what happened out there?"

"I cannot tell you exactly what Peter did or how he accomplished his goals, only that he was ordered to create a diversion, and he did. Nor can I tell you what Viktor did before we met him on the beach. It was on the way back to rendezvous with the... car... boat... whatever that vehicle is, that Peter was shot."

As she began her narrative, Virgil idly reached over and threw a switch. A recording device started, making a copy of her impressions of the operation to give to his father later. Both of the Tracys listened intently, following her straightforward recounting with interest and refraining from asking questions until she was finished.

"So, you think there were surveillance cameras watching you and Parker?" John asked.

Brigitte nodded. "I assumed so. After all, wouldn't the Minister of Security look to his own with the very best tools available?"

"What did Alvarez use to knock Penelope out?" Virgil wanted to know.

"I don't know. All I know is that she whispered something that indicated she knew the man, then there was the thud of a falling body." Brigitte's smooth forehead creased into a frown. "Though it was odd; when we finally pulled her from the room, I was peering inside so I could stun whoever might have been coming after her. When the minister came into view, she told me not to look at him, not to look at his eyes. I thought it a very strange comment."

"It is odd," John said, exchanging surprised glances with each other. There was a moment of silence, then Virgil smiled.

"Well, I for one am glad that you and Parker and the rest were there to pull her out," he said, his tone conveying his gratefulness. He looked out his viewport at the dark hangar. "Now if only Scott would show up, we can conclude this caper and things will get back to normal."

Brigitte glanced at him, then back at John. She shook her head slowly. "Nothing is ever ended. And nothing will ever be as it was before."

John nodded and crouched down beside her. He smiled and asked softly, "Just out of curiosity, who recruited you?"

Brigitte smiled and chuckled a little. "Tin-Tin Kyrano. She and I were good friends when we lived at Paris. My father was a dealer in fine art; he was always going back and forth between Stockholm and Paris, looking for new artists and old masters to fulfill his commissions. My mother was professor of Medieval and Renaissance literature who often gave lectures at the Sorbonne. She was a good friend of Tin-Tin's mother, and when we stayed in Paris we always stayed at the Hilton so my mother and hers could continue their friendship. That's where I met Tin-Tin. In fact, when she was working on completing her degree, we roomed together for a while. I was supposed to follow in either of my parents' footsteps, but my real love was in an entirely different sphere."

"Firefighting?" John asked simply.

Brigitte nodded. "I always remembered how devastated my mother was to learn that her good friend Samani was dead and why. I so wished I could have been there to save her. That's what started me on my path. I didn't last long in university, I'm afraid."

"Some people don't. It's not something to be ashamed of." John paused. "Y'know something? I've always admired firefighters and paramedics and other 'ordinary' rescue personnel. I mean, we come to a rescue in a blaze of glory when all other means have been exhausted, and everybody sings our praises. But you... and those who do what you do... you plug away at it day after day, without the technology that we have, and a great risk to yourselves. And... well... you're the unsung hero." He took her hand and squeezed it. "I want to say 'Thank you'. Thank you for what you do when you're at your 'day job'."

Brigitte glanced down, smiling a little, her cheeks reddening with pleased embarrassment. "You're welcome. You're right that not many thank us or remember us, but we appreciate those who do." She took a breath and said, "Though we would find things easier, perhaps, if we had some of the technology that you use."

Virgil suddenly straightened and looked out his viewport again. "The hangar door is opening. I think it's Scott."

"Thunderbird Two from Alpha, come in."

Virgil sat back down in his command chair. "This is Thunderbird Two, go ahead."

"It's time for your passenger to go. Her ride is here. And your other passengers are ready."

Virgil smiled. "F-A-B. Moving Thunderbird Two out to open the pod. Delta out." He turned to Brigitte. "If you'll sit down, we'll soon have you on your way home."

"Yes. I want to get home and into bed. This has been a very tiring night." She sat back and buckled herself in. John sat beside her, while Virgil powered up his maneuvering thrusters and brought his 'Bird out into the dawning day.

xxxx

The priest said a soft, "Amen" and crossed himself. As if by force of habit, Melissa crossed herself too, and straightened. Viktor appeared as if from nowhere and said softly. "We must take him right away so that his organs will be of help."

Melissa swallowed heavily and a strangled, "Go" came out, then she turned and buried her face in Scott's shoulder. His arms came up automatically to hold her, and his hand gently and instinctively rubbed her back. Viktor passed by Penelope without glancing at her, and called in a couple of orderlies. Together they rolled the bed out, and the last glimpse Penelope had of Peter was of his carrot red hair as the bed turned the corner outside the door. She turned her attention back to the scene within the room. The priest was speaking quietly now with Melissa, trying to comfort her while Scott kept a protective arm around her shoulders. Viktor was slumped up against the wall, looking drained.

"Parker?" she whispered, dabbing at her eyes and face with a tissue the chauffeur had provided.

"Yus, Milady?" came the equally soft reply.

"Perhaps now is the time to impress upon Viktor what he is to tell the police... or the press."

Parker shot her a puzzled look. "Th' press, Milady?"

"Yes, Parker. The press. I shall explain later."

"H'All rayte, Milady. Ay shall do may best."

The chauffeur approached the doctor, who looked up at him with a tired expression. They exchanged a few words, then left the room quietly, Viktor turning to watch Melissa and Scott until he passed through the door.

Melissa nodded at the priest, who said, "God bless you, child." Then he left, giving Penelope a nod and a small smile as he did.

Scott guided Melissa to a chair, and Penelope decided that this was the moment to approach her. She took a moment to compose herself, then wheeled her conveyance over to the sobbing woman and raised her eyes to meet Scott's. He responded by touching Melissa gently on the shoulder. "Mel, there's someone here that I'd like you to meet. She was with Peter at... the end."

The red haired woman raised her face to regard Penelope with a half-hopeful, half-dread filled expression. Penelope tried to look encouraging yet sympathetic as she held out her hand. "My name is Penelope Creighton-Ward. It is nice to meet you, Melissa, though I wish it were not under such sad circumstances."

Melissa nodded and took Penelope's hand limply. "It is nice to meet you, too. Scott said you were with Peter when h-he died."

"I was with him near the end, yes." Penelope took a deep breath. "He gave me a message. For your children... and for you." She glanced up at Scott. "And one for Scott as well."

Melissa's eyes grew wide, and her hand, which was still holding Penelope's, convulsively tightened its grip. "What did he say?" she demanded in a whisper.

Penelope closed her eyes for a moment, more to steel herself to the task than to remember the words, then she opened them to look calmly at the grieving widow. Her own hand firmly gripped Melissa's, trying to give and take both comfort and strength from the touch.

"He said first, 'Tell my wee ones that their Da loves them and will always be watching over them'." She shifted her gaze to Scott. "He told me to tell you,Scott, that he forgives you the pint, but you should drink one for him with your brothers."

The pilot smiled and nodded slightly. Melissa glanced over her shoulder at him, then returned to gaze at Penelope. "And what did he say to me?"

The aristocrat sighed. "He made me promise to 'Tell my angel Melissa that I love her'." She fought again with the tears that threatened to fall, and won a temporary respite. "And 'that I was thinking of her at the end'."

Melissa's gaze held hers for a moment more, then the redhead took a deep breath and whispered, "Thank you."

Penelope merely nodded; to speak at that moment would cost her what frail composure she had achieved. Scott squatted down beside Melissa, sliding an arm around her shoulders again. "Have you given any thought to what you're going to do when they release his body? The funeral and such?"

Melissa shook her head. "No, I haven't. I'm still can't believe he's... gone." Her tears began to flow again.

Penelope squeezed her hand once more. "If there is any way I can be of assistance, please let me know."

Melissa looked up briefly and nodded. Penelope sighed slightly, removed her hand gently, and pulled away. She glanced over at the door, where Parker had appeared, followed by Viktor. The chauffeur ducked in and wheeled her out at her silent, motioned command.

Viktor leaned up against the wall outside, wearing clean scrubs and a glum expression on his pale face. He straightened when Penelope came out, and fell into step with her wheelchair as they ambled slowly down the hall. At last they came to a door to an unoccupied room, and he ushered the aristocrat inside. "No one will hear us in here." He closed the door behind him and then moved a chair to where he was on the same level as Penelope, saying softly, "Other surgeons are working on harvesting those organs of Peter's that can be used. I... I was too close to things. Besides, I am not officially on duty anyway."

Penelope nodded. "Thank you, Viktor, for telling me. I know you did all you could for him."

"Yes, I did what I could. Would to God it had been enough." He looked away then took a deep breath. "I have not yet spoken to the police; there has been no time. I understand much of what you have asked me to say, and Parker has told me why the boat's name is imperative. But the story is so sketchy and I am sure they will ask deeper questions."

"I know," Penelope replied in a similar tone. "I expect another questioning session myself before I leave. You might suggest that you were too busy fighting for Peter's life to remember any faces. I understand that the pirates usually have no tell-tale signs on their boats, and some even disguise their faces with kerchiefs and such. Those details would add verisimilitude to your tale. I shall be adding them to mine."

"Yes. That sounds plausible. Thank you."

Penelope glanced over at him, hearing in his tone something that disturbed her. "Viktor? Is there something wrong?"

The doctor looked down at his hands, scrubbed clean after dealing with Peter. "When I was recruited to serve International Rescue, I thought my job would be mostly information gathering, especially when I came here to Unity City. I did not expect to be shooting guns and participating in covert missions. In the back of my mind, I realized it was possible that I might be practicing my skills on some IR personnel, but not under such conditions." He raised his head and gave her a bleak look. "I do not know if I can continue in this position."

There was silence for a moment, then Penelope asked, "Who recruited you, Viktor?"

"He is known as Hiram Hackenbacker. I met him while studying at Cambridge. Afterwards, we corresponded and kept up the friendship."

"He did not give you any hint that there might be danger to this position?"

"No, I do not remember him saying anything about it being dangerous. Mostly gathering information and transmitting it to base."

"I will admit that such is usually the case," Penelope responded. "Rarely have our agents been required to act beyond reporting intelligence." She paused, then asked, "Have you told Hiram about this doubt you have?"

Viktor shook his head. "I have not had time. And I do not want him to think less of me."

"If I know Hiram... and I do," Penelope said, smiling softly, "I doubt he would think any less of a friend who can be honest with him. But I ask you, as a favor to me, to sleep on your decision. If you still feel the same way after you are rested, then contact him. You may have to speak to our commander yourself, but after the courage I have seen in you this night, I am certain you will have no difficulty in doing that."

Viktor nodded. "I will do as you request."

"Well, now we should make ourselves available to the authorities, and to the press as well."

"Ye did say ye'd h'ex-plain t' me h'about th' press," Parker reminded her.

"So I did. And I should do so to Viktor as well. You see, Viktor, when I was detained by Mr. Alvarez, all of my jewelry was confiscated along with my shoes. In fact, they searched me rather thoroughly while I was unconscious."

"Milady!" Parker cried, aghast. His rheumy eyes narrowed and his voice became low and dangerous. "Whay Ay'll gi'e those bloody sons-o'-bitches..."

Penelope held up her hand. "Hush, Parker. Let me finish."

The chauffeur subsided. "Yus, Milady."

"Not only did they take my jewelry, but very likely the contents of my purse and my luggage, some of which included a few interesting gadgets that an aide to the Prime Minister would not usually have, and all of it covered with my fingerprints. Mr. Alvarez may decide to use that equipment to connect me, and possibly attempt to connect International Rescue, to this evening's escapade. By leaking the story of our 'encounter with pirates' to the press, I shall attempt to spike his guns. He would find it difficult to produce what he has without explaining how he came to have it."

"Do you think this will work?" Viktor asked.

"The word of an English woman with a sterling reputation, coupled with the account of an esteemed Unity City doctor? I think it shall," Penelope said. "When I first saw Parker and Brigitte, their faces blackened and hair hidden, I could barely recognize them. Even should Mr. Alvarez have vid of their activities, it will be difficult to make a proper identification, at least of them. As far as any vid of my own person is concerned, he will be hard pressed to explain exactly what I was doing on his property, and any vid he might have of myself as Alison will be practically useless to his cause. It all depends on timing and who gets their account out to the public first."

"Wot h'if 'e 'as vid o' you an' 'e's takin' h'off yer wig?" Parker asked.

"That is perhaps the only danger I can foresee," Penelope admitted. "But... we must risk it. So, Viktor, may I count on you?"

Viktor sighed. "Yes, I will do my best to help with the press." He rose from his seat. "We should go. We have been here too long."

"I agree. Parker?" Penelope turned to the doctor. "Let us get a head start, then come out. It must not seem like we are in collusion."

"Even though we are."

"Even so."

Parker wheeled Penelope out of the room, leaving Viktor to deal with the chairs. "Where to, Milady?"

"Downstairs, Parker. Back to the emergency ward. I think we will find the people we want down there, including Renée. who should know the news about Peter."

"Very gude, Milady."

xxxx

Scott watched as Parker wheeled Penelope out, then turned his attention back to Melissa. Her face was covered in tears, and she sniffled as she tried to keep the sobbing at bay. He sighed internally; he knew from experience that it was a losing battle. Scanning the room made empty by the departure of the aristocrat, the priest, the doctor, and especially the bed and its occupant, he saw what he was looking for: a box of tissues. Murmuring, "Be right back," he heaved himself to his feet and fetched it. Pulling a few free, he offered them to Melissa, crouching down again so he could see her downcast face. The offering was all it took; she broke into sobs again.

"What will I do without him?" she wailed.

He shook his head slowly; he had no answers for her. He knew that his father would not let her and her family down on the financial end; Jeff Tracy believed in taking care of his employees, whether overt or covert. _Her kids... they will miss their dad terribly. They're still young, young enough to not understand, young enough to feel abandoned and fearful. Young enough to still need that fatherly influence... _And with those thoughts, an idea was born. The more he looked at it, the more he liked it. _I'll have to clear it with Father, and with Melissa, but hey, Dad of all people should understand. And I have a fine example to follow, too. I'll broach the subject with him when I get home... after we discuss this whole situation. I'll talk to Melissa later, when things have settled a bit._

"Mel?" he asked softly. When she lifted her puffy eyes to him, he said gently, "I think you should get out of here and go home. The kids will be waking up soon and they'll want to see their mother..."

"Oh, Scott! How do I tell them? How do I tell them that their Da isn't coming home?" Melissa asked through her tears.

"With as much love and strength as you can muster, Mel," Scott replied. "Listen, do you have anyone nearby, any family who can come stay with you for a bit? To help you out?"

"I have a cousin. He works for the Irish ambassador. He and his wife have always been good to us. Perhaps I can get her to come." She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I suppose I'll have to tell Peter's people. I don't know that they'd care; ever since the RAF they've cut ties with him. But his youngest sister has kept in touch. I'll tell her and she can tell the rest of the lot."

"Good idea."

"I just don't know how I'm going to face life without him," Melissa whisper.

"You will, Mel, you will. Just take it one day at a time. You have friends and family who care and... you can call me anytime, day or night. Whenever you need to talk."

"Thank you, Scott. I'll remember that."

He took her hand, and helped her rise from the chair. Putting an arm around her shoulders again, he drew her from the room. She took one glance back at the place, then closed her eyes momentarily and let him shepherd her out.

Downstairs, Scott could see Penelope speaking with two or three unfamiliar people in a corner of the emergency waiting room. Parker sidled up to Scott and said, "Ay'm h'under h'orders t' drive ye where e'er ye want t' go, sir. Then h'on th' way back, get 'er Ladyship's thin's from th' h'Embassy, an' come t' fetch 'er."

"Good plan, Parker. Let's get this lady home."

xxxx

Melissa made a phone call from the car using Scott's satellite phone, and her cousin's wife, properly shocked, agreed to come over right away. Renée Baptista was waiting for them when they arrived at the Riordan house. "The children are still asleep and have not stirred. What is the news about Peter?" She gazed at Melissa's red-rimmed eyes and Scott's solemn face, then made the intuitive leap. "There is no reason to say anything. I think I understand. I am so sorry, Mrs. Riordan." She scribbled a number down on a notepad, and handed it to the grieving woman. "If you need anything, anything at all, call me. I will do everything in my power to help."

"Thank you," Melissa said softly. A small puzzled frown crinkled her forehead. "You know, all of a sudden, there are a lot of people who are strangers to me, but obviously were friends to Peter, and all of them want to help. I-I don't know what to make of it."

"Just accept it," Renée said softly, putting a hand on Melissa's arm. "Your Peter made an impact on lives that you will never know existed. But those of us who knew him wish to honor him by helping the family he has left behind."

Melissa's tears began to flow again, and she sniffed another, "Thank you" between the beginnings of her renewed sobbing. Scott pulled her close again, and she turned and buried her face in his chest as she had before. Renée took the opportunity to whisper, "Goodbye," and went out to wait for him.

"Mel?" He waited for the woman to quiet before he spoke again. "Mel. I wish I could stay and keep you company; offer you comfort. But I can't. I have responsibilities. But remember what I said. Call me anytime you want." He handed her his small satellite phone. "Here, take my phone. My home number is programmed in it. Use it whenever you like."

"I... I can't take this...," Melissa began.

"Yes, you can. I can always get another phone, and I'll get another number so you can call me direct. I don't want anything to stop you from contacting me whenever you need to, even if it's just to talk."

She took the phone, looking at it with dulled eyes. He embraced her once more, then both of them turned to glance out the window as a car pulled up. "Looks like your cousin's wife is here. And it's time for me to go. Remember, call any time."

He pulled away, and she followed him to the door. The cousin was getting out of the car, and looking toward the house. Scott turned back for an instant and gave Melissa a quick kiss on the forehead, then he was gone, striding to Renée's car. Within moments, that car was gone, its red tail lights disappearing down the dark and quiet street.

"Oh, Mel," said the cousin's wife, opening her arms to the woman who stood in the door. "What horrible news!" She turned her gaze to follow Melissa's as she watched Scott leave. "Who was that, dearie?"

"A good... friend," Melissa answered dully. She let the woman into the house, and firmly closed the door.

xxxx

Penelope looked very satisfied when they picked her up at the hospital. "The press now has all the details that I care to give them. They will, of course, try to interview Viktor; but I am sure his story will pass muster. Now to rendezvous with Thunderbird Two and leave Unity City."

"None too soon fer me, Milady," Parker said quietly.

They drove out to the airfield, and Scott unlocked the security gates. He contacted Virgil within the hangar, and they watched as Thunderbird Two's bulk trundled out so that the pod could be lifted. The door lowered, and inside stood Virgil, John, and Brigitte. Scott strode over to his brothers. He looked Brigitte up and down, then said, "I'm afraid I have bad news about Peter..."

She held up a hand. "There is no need to tell me. I already know."

"You know already?" Scott queried, his handsome face puzzled.

Brigitte nodded. "I was there, helping him. Peter died here, long before he got to the hospital. Viktor tried to revive him, but he knew it was impossible. So he strove to keep Peter's body functioning until he could confirm brain death, and so that if Peter had chosen to donate his organs, they would be in a condition to do so."

"I see," Scott replied. He looked at his brothers. "So you know, too?"

"Yes, we do," John said, softly. He put a hand on Scott's shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Scott. I know how close you were."

For the first time, Scott realized that he had been on autopilot, that he had been pushing his own grief aside to help Melissa and anyone else who needed it. Now, the reality of Peter's death hit him fully, like a lead weight, and he gasped in a deep breath at the pain of it all. Breathing hard to regain his composure, he lifted his arm to grasp John's above the elbow. "Thanks, John. I guess it's just hit me that he's really dead." John merely nodded, and the brothers let go of each other.

In the meanwhile, Brigitte had walked down the ramp and approached Renée and Penelope. Parker was busy pulling his employer's things from the trunk of Renée's car, and Virgil was leaning on it, speaking softly with Penelope herself. The tall blonde and the petite Kalingo woman embraced as if they'd known each other all their lives.

"You have heard?" Brigitte asked.

"Yes, though not the details."

"I will fill you in on what I can as we return to the city." Brigitte then turned to Penelope. "How are you?"

"My feet have seen better days," Penelope replied, excusing herself from conversing with Virgil to turn her attention to Brigitte. "But I shall live. You will see a version of my cover story in the morning news. I only hope it is enough to keep Mr. Alvarez from producing the items he has undoubtedly culled from my luggage." She turned suddenly to Virgil. "Oh! That reminds me. You should contact base and have our science team do something to render my compact communicator useless."

"I will," Virgil said with a smile. "Once we get you settled onboard. May I help you into the pod?"

"Yes, of course, Virgil. Just another moment, please." Penelope got carefully to her feet and reached out to embrace Brigitte. "Thank you," she murmured. "I owe you my life."

"It was in the line of duty," Brigitte answered gravely as she released the aristocrat from the light hug.

"I shall not forget," Penelope promised. She turned to Virgil. "Now I think I am ready."

"F-A-B," he responded. Then he turned to his brother and called, "John! Please come give me a hand!"

John had just started to inform Scott of Virgil's behavior during the rescue, a recounting that made the oldest Tracy son scowl, when the Thunderbird Two pilot called him. "I'll tell you more when we get home," the blond promised.

"You do that. I'm heading for Thunderbird One so I can pull her out of here when he gets his jolly green giant out of the way," Scott told him, following him down the ramp. John nodded, and Scott, with a final thank you to Renée for her help, walked off into the dark hangar.

John came up to Brigitte before answering his brother's summons. "It was nice to meet you, Brigitte. Again, thank you for what you do during your 'day job', as well as what you've done this night."

"You are welcome, John." She hesitated, then said softly. "Perhaps we could see each other again?" She lowered her eyes as she blushed. "As friends. You understand."

John's eyes opened wide with shock and pleasure. "I'd like that. To see you again, that is. As you say, as friends," he blurted out awkwardly.

"Let me give you my number," she said, turning to ask Renée for a slip of paper.

"Oh, no need," John hurried to tell her. "We, uh, already have it."

She opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it. "Oh, yes. Of course you do. Well, take care, John."

"You, too, Brigitte." He held open the passenger door for her and closed it after she had slipped inside the car. Then he turned to Virgil.

"If you're finished romancing our lovely Valkyrie there," Virgil commented drily, "Perhaps you can give me a hand carrying Lady Penelope up into the pod?"

"Sure, Virge. Anything for a pretty girl." He and Virgil made a chair of their hands much as he and Parker had done before, and carried Penelope up the ramp and into the pod. Parker closed the car's back door, giving the two women inside a farewell salute, then followed the Tracys, shaking his head. Renée's car took off, heading for the entrance to the airstrip. Virgil instructed Parker on how to raise the ramp, and then to lower the chassis of Thunderbird Two down over the cavernous cargo carrier. John watched Virgil as he told Parker what to do; it seemed strange to him that his brother would let anyone else handle his beloved 'Bird, most of all someone who had no experience, like Parker. But he put his thoughts on the back burner until they had Penelope safely tucked away on a bunk in the crew's quarters, where Virgil insisted she stay and rest.

Parker came into those quarters as soon as the Tracy sons had left, and fussed with drawing a blanket up nearly to Penelope's chin. She swatted at him affectionately. "Parker, do stop mothering me. I am not made of spun glass."

"An' Ay haf reason t' know h'it, Milady," he shot back. He looked at the door he had just come through. "Naow, thet Mr. Virgil, 'e seems t' think thet ye h'are."

"He has been very kind, as has John," Penelope declared. She sighed as she lay back. "I am so very glad to be going to the island. There is so much I have to tell Jeff."

"Ay know, Milady. But h'in th' meantayme, ye stay 'ere an' get some sleep. Ay'll be sittin' aowt wit' th' boys h'if ye need me."

"Very good, Parker, and thank you. You had better go out now and strap in so Virgil can take off."

"Yus, milady." The chauffeur walked to the door and glanced back at his employer with a fond expression. Then he left.

Penelope shifted onto her side, curling up. She felt gritty and grimy and bone-weary. Peter's pale face rose up in her mind's eye, and his final words, "Tell th' boss, t'was worth it" rang in her ears. She shook her head. _Is it really worth an innocent life? Was it **really** worth your life, Peter? _she wondered. The mask of composure she had been wearing since speaking with Melissa finally crumbled, and tears began to flow down her face anew. Her breath hitched, and she pounded on the pillow as she sobbed aloud in exhaustion and anger, "Damn it! Damn it _all_! Damn it all to _bloody hell_!"


	15. Debriefing

_Author's Note: _Back to base and more repercussions. All you Virgil fan-girls, don't hate me, please! My thanks to Hobbeth for advice and betareading.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Claudette: **Romance? What romance? I don't see any romance. Not yet anyway. As far as Virgil's actions are concerned, he was letting his pique at John's refusal to do what was his job color his interaction with John. He might have caused John injury by releasing that pod when he did and the way he did. There will be fallout from that. No, Penelope hasn't reciprocated Virgil's feelings... and that's all I'll say on the matter. As for our "friend", you'll find out he knows when he's got a good thing going.

**fellowriverrat: **No cuffs upside the head yet. The ripple is spreading, and will continue to spread. As for where things are going with Scott/Melissa and John/Brigitte, some of that is up to the characters, actually. Sometimes they take over and have their own way. Thanks for the good words about the angst. I try not to be an angsty writer, but this subject is full of it. And why didn't Virgil do the romantic thing? You answered the question yourself. And thanks for the good words on Parker. I figure that by now his relationship with Penny is a bit deeper than just servant/employer.

**Mad-Friend: **_Everyone_ will have a front row seat for that comeuppance. And tying it in with WASP just made sense. I can't see the boys just taking their Thunderbirds anywhere without having some sort of camouflage or hiding place for them. And yes, this is a darker fic right now. Things will get brighter and I hope you'll continue to read, even if you like lighter fare.

**Math Girl: **Thanks for the good words about the possible John romance and my work with the tension and the emotions. More to come.

**FrankieC: **Thanks for the good words about my handling of the emotions and especially of Parker. I've always thought him comic, but there are depths to him that still have yet to be plumbed.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

Dawn found "Alvarez" sitting in the lotus position on the plush rug in his bedroom, dressed only in black silk trousers, his mind reaching out beyond the plane of mere existence to seek, not enlightenment, but power. He mentally crossed the miles to zero in on Tracy Island, and specifically the mind of his half-brother, Kyrano. A mind that he found resolutely closed to him this day, as always. He knew that here, away from the aura of power that permeated his Malaysian temple base, away from the huge statue that helped him focus that power on his half-brother's mind, he could not strike out, could not hope to bring the old man to his knees as he had done so many times before.

So instead, he turned his thoughts toward Kyrano's daughter, hoping that perhaps the mist surrounding her subconscious would have lifted and he could see his way clear to influencing her as he once had influenced her father. But it was still there, as thick and impenetrable as ever. He feared that she was truly one of the mind-blind, a person with natural shields who could neither use nor be used by the powers of the mind. He cursed internally, for he knew he had no one but himself to blame. It was only since his encounter with her at Lake Anasta that the strong shields had developed.

Slowly he withdrew from his explorations and relaxed, giving his body and mind time to recover from his exertions. He knew he would need sleep soon, but the meditation would suffice until he was satisfied that his day's work was done. He took a deep breath to jump start the slowed rhythm of his heart and began to bring his senses back online as it were. His stomach rumbled, and he opened his eyes. _A shower first, then breakfast._

The hot water refreshed him, and as he stepped out, he moved close to the mirror to check on his disguise. Knowing that this plot would take a long time to come to fruition, much longer than the life span of his special masks, he had opted instead for plastic surgery. The surgeon who did the job was renowned for his work; the Hood merely appropriated him... and his youngest daughter, as security for the doctor's actions. Both of them were now buried in the wilds of Malaysia where their bodies would never be found. If Gaat ever tired of being the Minister of Security, a position that gave him the kind of power he was born to wield, he would take another eminent plastic surgeon and have him return his face to normal. Or so his reasoning went. He used drugs to stimulate the growth of hair on his usually bald pate, and used permanent dye to simulate the colors of the real minister's mane. His own skin needed little alteration; it needed only a touch of instant tanning lotion applied once a week to keep his epidermis the proper color for a man from Columbia.

He dressed carefully, remembering the black band on his left arm, and went out to the formal dining room for breakfast. Franks and Ramirez were already there.

"Buenos días, señores," he said cheerfully as he sat down. "I trust you slept well."

The two men murmured their own greetings and assured them that they had indeed slept well, albeit for only a short time. Alvarez smiled at them, and gave the servant who came to him an order for breakfast. "Where is Jorge this morning?" he asked casually.

"He is sleeping," Ramirez answered. "He was up until the small hours of the morning, cleaning up that streaming video. He told me to tell you it has been downloaded to your data pad, and that it is ready for transmit to Geneva."

"Ah! Excellent." Alvarez picked up the data pad by his plate. "I will tend to it in my office. First, to read the news."

He sipped at the hot green tea that the servant had brought in and had poured into a delicate china cup. The tea was one of the very few luxuries from his former life that he permitted himself, and was easily explained by a sudden liking for the brew. While he drank and waited for his breakfast, he scrolled down the news reports that were downloaded to his data pad. He came to a particular item, and his eyebrows went up. Putting the cup down carefully, he shook his head and began to chuckle. "Excellent, Lady Penelope, excellent. I have always known you to be a worthy opponent."

"What is it?" Franks asked, stopping a bite of omelet on its way to his mouth.

"Our former 'house guest' has concocted a story to cover her injuries, her involvement with the Thunderbirds... and the death of one of the intruders from last night's imbroglio."

"Which one?" Franks put down his fork, interested in spite of himself.

"I believe it was that man you shot on the beach, señor. Here is the account." Alvarez began to read.

"International Rescue saves victims of pirates. Yesterday evening, Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, English socialite and some-time model for François Lemaire, was attacked by pirates somewhere between New Providence and the Exuma Islands. She was sailing on her yacht, _Seabird_, accompanied by Unity City surgeon, Dr. Viktor Solokov, MD, her servant and pilot, Mr. Aloysius Parker, and Mr. Parker's friend, Mr. Peter Riordan.

"The pirates attacked early in the evening, stealing Lady Penelope's jewelry and other personal belongings, Dr. Solokov's watch and wallet, and stripping other items of value from the yacht. Mr. Riordan struggled with the pirates and was shot through the leg. The pirates then scuttled the boat, leaving the four to die on the open sea. However, during the scuffle, Mr. Parker managed to get a message through to International Rescue, who picked up _Seabird's_ passengers before the boat completely sank and delivered them to Unity City. Mr. Riordan was treated for his injury aboard the Thunderbird craft, but was declared dead on arrival at Unity City's Central Hospital.

" 'It was a terrible experience,' Lady Penelope told this reporter. 'We had no idea whether or not the scoundrels would return. I feared that sharks would attack us; you hear so much about how aggressive they can be. Dr. Solokov worked very hard to save Mr. Riordan's life. It was very sad to watch the man slip away. Thank heavens for International Rescue! We surely would have died if not for their intervention!' "

Franks snorted and Alvarez frowned at him. "There is more," the older man said. He began to read again.

"Dr. Solokov echoed Lady Penelope's sentiments and explained that he was too busy trying to save Mr. Riordan's life to be able to identify any of the pirates. Lady Penelope confirmed that the hoodlums had covered their faces as much as possible. 'I am very fortunate that theft was all they had in mind as far as I was concerned,' she said.

"Unity City Police Commissioner Étienne D'Eschambault has vowed to crack down on the pirates who have been victimizing those smaller boats that sail the waters surrounding the Caribbean islands. 'We are working closely with WASP to find out the identities of these hoodlums and will prosecute them to the fullest extent of the law.'

"Commander Samuel Shore, of the World Aquanaut Security Patrol, explained some of the problems facing his organization as they try to track down the pirates.'They usually attack in small groups, using boats with no readily distinguishable markings or registration numbers. Members of the boarding party cover their faces with kerchiefs and reflective sunglasses to prevent identification and only one member speaks. The rest use hand signals to indicate what they want to their victims to do. Then they often scuttle the boats, leaving no witnesses. They prefer to let the sea do their dirty work; bullets can be traced and used as evidence should a body be recovered. If one of our ships happens to be in the area, it often has to choose between giving chase or rescuing the victims. And should it be in a position to give chase, the group splits up, making it difficult to choose which boat to follow. We often catch a few of the actual boarding crew, but we haven't been able to locate and arrest the leaders or find where they are based.' " Alvarez stopped reading. "There is more, but it does not concern us."

"I bet that the pirates won't be too happy to be blamed for this," Franks remarked between sips of his coffee.

"No, they will not be. But to whom can they complain?" said Alvarez, putting down the data pad. "This account does give us some information that may work to our advantage: the names of some of the International Rescue operatives that were involved in the raid. Even the dead man may have family that could be useful to our ends."

"What will you do now, your Excellency?" Ramirez asked. "Lady Penelope has explained away the disappearance of her belongings. If you produce them..."

"I shall not produce them. Not now. Not unless I find myself in a position to use them to my advantage," Alvarez replied, nodding at his servitor as the plate of _huevos rancheros _was placed before him. "However, I shall still demand an investigation of both the nighttime raid on my property." He sipped his tea and smiled slyly. "And the mysterious disappearance of Señorita Alison St. Clair."

xxxx

Jeff and Kyrano were waiting when Thunderbird Two finally backed up into her hangar. Kyrano had an antigravity cargo float with him; he knew from past experience that wherever her Ladyship went, a large number of suitcases usually followed. Jeff had brought down a wheelchair. "We should have Brains develop an antigravity chair of some sort. It would be a boon to the medical community," he said off-handedly. Kyrano had nodded and the two fell silent as they waited.

Thunderbird Two's engines powered down, and Virgil got up from the pilot's seat. John nudged Parker, who had fallen asleep in his seat. "C'mon, old man," he teased. "Let's get Penelope out of here."

" 'Oo ye callin' h'an h'old man, ye young jackanapes?" Parker muttered as he undid his safety straps and stood up cautiously. He was stiff and knew he needed more rest, but her Ladyship's safety and comfort always came first.

"You," John said with a grin. "You've been snoring in my ear all the way home."

Parker just shook his head, then rubbed the back of his neck to get out a crick in it. "Ay'll 'ave ye know, Mister John, thet Ay h'am h'as fit h'as h'any o' ye youngsters."

"Riiiiight," John drawled as the two of them approached the crew's quarters. The door was already open, and John was surprised to find Virgil inside, gently waking Lady Penelope.

"C'mon, John, help me get Lady Penelope to the pod. Parker? I was notified that Kyrano's outside with a cargo float. Could you tend to the luggage?"

"Milady?" Parker asked. He wasn't taking any orders or requests from any youngster, even a Tracy, when his employer was right there and could speak her own mind.

"Yes, Parker. Bring me a pair of my casual sandals, then take care of the luggage. And please discover where we should take FAB-1 for repairs and cleaning."

"Yus, Milady," Parker said, turning on his heels and making his way to the elevator.

"Now, Virgil, I appreciate so very much your desire to help, but really, I am able to walk. You and John should tend to whatever procedures you need to now that we have arrived at base. Parker will escort me to the pod."

Virgil frowned. "Are you sure? Didn't the doctor say anything about putting weight on your feet?"

"Only that I should be wearing shoes or sandals when I did so. Parker will attend to that. You go and deal with what you must." She smiled up at him. "Really, I am very tired of playing the fair and helpless maiden."

"Well, if you insist," Virgil replied doubtfully.

"I do insist."

He sighed. "All right. Come on, John." The two men left together, Virgil looking over his shoulder at her as he passed through the door.

Penelope sighed. _It is bad enough to have Parker hovering over me, but Virgil, too... it is really too much!_

Parker returned with her sandals, and began to crouch and help her on with them. She pointedly put out a hand. "Give them to me. I shall put them on myself."

The chauffeur did as she requested, and stood up straight, watching her put on her footwear. She stood carefully, swaying just a touch and wincing, then hobbling as gracefully as possible, she left the little room. Parker shook his head and followed.

Outside, Jeff and Kyrano watched the chassis of Thunderbird Two rise smoothly into the air, revealing the pod. As soon as he heard the telltale "thunk" that meant the hydraulic legs were locked into place, Jeff strode over to the pod's smaller access door with the wheelchair, while Kyrano pulled the cargo hauler behind him. The larger door began to descend, and the smaller door opened to reveal Virgil, followed by Penelope. John was seen standing with Parker near the still camouflaged FAB-1, the sight of which made Jeff look twice and Kyrano to raise an eyebrow. The retainer tugged the float up the ramp and, after greetings were exchanged, assisted Parker in moving Penelope's luggage to the carrier.

The lady looked first at the pleasant face of the man who stood behind the wheelchair, then at the conveyance itself. "I shall not be allowed to walk to the Villa under my own power, shall I?"

"No," Jeff said simply.

She sighed again and gracefully arranged herself in the chair. Jeff smiled a little, then turned his eyes to his third son, who was standing at the top of the ramp. "I'm going to take Penny upstairs so she can clean up and get a bite to eat. Have Parker bring FAB-1 to the pod vehicle repair bay next to the lab."

"F-A-B, Father," John replied.

Jeff turned to Virgil. "Scott just came in a few minutes ago. When you're finished here, you and John get upstairs, get showered, and meet us in the dining room. You can debrief over food." He paused for a moment, then added, "Parker should be in on this debriefing, too."

"F-A-B, Dad," Virgil responded.

Jeff wheeled the chair along to the elevator that would take them to the monorail, which would, in turn, take them to another lift and bring them up to the main house. He was glad that Virgil seemed to be curbing his feelings for Lady Penelope in the face of duty; he had envisioned having a fight over who was going to escort the aristocrat upstairs.

"I'll send Tin-Tin in to help you with whatever you might need," he told the back of Penelope's head.

"Thank you, Jeff. You are so kind. I do not foresee any difficulties in changing clothes or bathing," the lady declared. "Perhaps she could help put the dressings back on my feet when I am through freshening up."

"I understand. Just give her a call when you are ready."

They proceeded along to the monorail car. Penelope set the brakes on the wheelchair as Jeff took the controls. "How is your mother?"

"Doing better," he said. "She is still regaining her strength after this bout with the flu. As a result, she has been going to bed early, and actually sleeping in."

"I am sorry that she is still feeling poorly," Penelope murmured sympathetically.

"Her body is still recovering but her personality is back in full swing," Jeff said with a chuckle. Then he sobered. "How bad are your injuries?"

"They are mostly scrapes and scratches from running barefoot down to the beach," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "I shall live." She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Which is more than I can say for poor Peter."

"I know."

She turned to look at him over her shoulder. "How is Scott taking it?"

Jeff shrugged. "I'm not sure. He's barely spoken to me since he arrived home. I guess I'll find out over our early breakfast."

"What time is it here?" she suddenly asked.

"Around three a.m... the day after you left Unity City."

"My, how time does fly."

Jeff smiled slightly at Penelope's attempt to lighten the mood. They entered the second elevator, and rode it up to the main level, where the guest rooms were. The door opened, and there was Tin-Tin.

"Oh, Lady Penelope! What a terrible experience you must have had!" the young woman exclaimed. She moved behind the chair, subtly pushing Jeff out of the way. "I will take you to the guest room and give you any help you need..."

"Uh, Tin-Tin..." Jeff began, trying to get a word in edgewise, trying to tell his overenthusiastic engineer that Penelope would rather do things on her own.

Penelope saw what was happening and took matters into her own hands. Before Tin-Tin could push her anywhere in the chair, she stood, taking a moment to be sure of her equilibrium, then turned and reached out for the Malaysian. Tin-Tin abandoned the chair and came around to give the aristocrat a quick, light embrace.

"Now, now, Tin-Tin, there is no reason to fuss over me. I am perfectly capable of taking care of my own needs... though I shall require some assistance to replace the bandages on my feet once I have bathed. Would you help me then?"

"Of course, Penelope, of course. Let me at least walk you to your room." The younger woman linked her arm through the blonde's and Penny glanced over her shoulder at Jeff, giving him a slight smile. Then the two women walked slowly down the hall.

Jeff shook his head, and folded up the wheelchair, setting it out of the way until it could be returned to the sick room. As he did, he heard the elevator go down, stop, then come back up again. The door opened and Virgil and John stepped out. They were surprised to see their father standing there, but greeted him. "Parker and Kyrano have taken the float up through the cargo elevator," John explained. He smiled a bit. "Parker even let me drive FAB-1 up to the repair bay." His look turned thoughtful. "Dad, do you think it would be a good idea to get Alan down here to help with repairs to FAB-1? He knows more about cars than any of us, outside of Brains."

It was Jeff's turn to look thoughtful. "Hmm. That's an interesting idea. Bring it up at the debriefing. Right now, though, you two should freshen up then meet us in the dining room. I'll have Alan listen in and we can discuss it then."

John nodded, then stretched and yawned. "I'm off to the shower." He turned and followed Virgil, who was already down the hall, heading for his room.

Jeff watched them go, then went to pick up his laptop so he could interface it with Alan's communicator and have his youngest son with them at the table as they discussed the latest developments.

xxxx

Alan sipped a cup of hot coffee and leaned up against one of the consoles while he waited for the signal from his father. It had been hard being a spectator this time; there hadn't been a lot he could do other than relay messages and download information. He shuddered when he thought about Peter. He knew him... well, it was actually more like an acquaintance than real knowledge, but still... he had known the man. Met him, ate with him, downed a few beers with him when he was old enough and Scott had occasion to take them pub crawling in Dublin.

_This is so unexpected. No one has ever thought that an agent could actually... die... in the line of duty, _he realized. The thought made his mind turn to his own good friend and sometime mechanic, Kenny Malone. Recently married, he and his wife had a toddler and another baby on the way. Kenny had also been made an IR agent just the year before. Jeff had thought it wise to recruit the man who was going to be working on some of their technology in the form of Alan's race cars, thereby keeping the secrets closer to home as it were.

Kenny had been working hard to justify Jeff's trust in him; only a few months ago he had given Alan a heads up on a car theft ring that was targeting race cars, hoping to strip them of any state-of-the-art tech to copy and distribute illegally. Alan had passed the word onto his father, and as a result, there was heavy security at his last race around both the Tracy garages and in the pit. Alan also suspected that his father had taken the information and passed it along anonymously to Interpol. He idly wondered if his newly rediscovered "Aunt" Lucinda had been part of the ongoing investigation.

_Man, it would be devastating if something like this happened to Kenny!_ he thought_. What wouldBeth do? How would she cope? I know I'd be all cut up about it, too, and feeling like it was my fault. He is my friend and it was on the strength of that friendship that Dad recruited him. Scott must be feeling awful right now. _He made a mental note to speak with his oldest brother after Scott had gotten the chance to debrief and get some sleep. _With a few hours of shut-eye behind us both, we'll be far more objective... though who can really be objective about the death of a friend?_

"Thunderbird Five from base. Come in, Thunderbird Five."

Alan found he had finished his coffee and he put the cup down as he answered the signal. "Base from Thunderbird Five. Reading you five by five. All set here, Commander."

"F-A-B, Sigma." Jeff took a deeper than normal breath and began. "This is the recorded debriefing of incident number 122, taking place on March 17, 2068. Operatives involved as called by their current code names: Alpha, Delta, Epsilon, Sigma, Pink Lady, Nosey, and Agents 38, 53, 87, and 112. Casualties, one." He sagged as he said the next bit, "Fatalities, one." He turned to Penelope and said, "Pink Lady, please begin."

The debriefing was long and very, very thorough. There wasn't as much stumbling over code names as there had been before, but the agent numbers were a bit confusing at the start. Lady Penelope told every detail of her experience, starting in London with the Prime Minister's office and ending with the moment she was pulled from the "guest room" at Minister Alvarez's house. There were gasps and cries of consternation when the true identity of Alvarez was revealed, a response that Jeff quickly quashed in order for Penelope to tell her whole story. There were growls of anger as she, her cheeks flaming as her face paled, described her methodical discovery that her person had been searched.

When she reached the point where Parker and Brigitte extracted her from the room, Parker took up the narrative. Brigitte's recorded statement was played, and Gordon, sitting in on the session, read an account that Viktor had emailed in. Scott added his bits, mentioning the problem with the Automatic Camera Detector.

"Can we do something that links the ACD with the camera fogger? Make the fogger come on whenever the ACD detects a camera?" Scott asked.

Brains, who sat in on debriefings as a matter of course, nodded. "I-I need to upgrade the c-camera fogger anyway. It should be, uh, simple to l-link the two."

Scott nodded, and continued. Penelope added her impressions of their flight from Alvarez's island, and Parker told his side of the story there, too. Virgil weighed in, as well as John, and Scott gave the two men a quick, puzzled glance when he heard Virgil say, "I lowered the pod," and John describe the same action as "He dropped the pod." The field commander sighed internally and thought,_ I'd better check with John and find out what went on. He's not given to imprecise speech; if he said Virgil dropped the pod, then Virgil dropped it. But I need to know why Virgil disagrees._

The debriefing continued until they had reached the point where the Thunderbirds arrived in Unity City. Kyrano kept the group supplied with a light breakfast and juice, but no coffee. By the end, they were all exhausted, physically and emotionally. Jeff had made copious notes on his data pad, and he looked them over before standing and addressing the group.

"Well done, everyone. I know that the death of Agent 53 is weighing heavily on us all, and I would like a private debriefing about the events in Unity City itself. But not until we get some rest. Is there anything else to discuss?"

John put up his hand. "I suggest that we get Sigma back to base to assist in the repairs of FAB-1. He knows more about cars than most of us... with the exception of Rho."

Alan piped up. "Uh, I like the idea, but there's someone else who knows even more about cars than I do: Agent 204. Instead of making the trip here, he could be brought in to help."

"Hmm." Jeff said, rubbing his stubbly chin. "That may be a better idea. I'll give it some thought and get back to you, Sigma." He looked around the table. "Anything else?"

"I'd like to speak to you privately when we're done here," Scott said.

Jeff nodded wearily. "In the lounge in ten minutes. Sigma, put the station on automatic and get some sleep. The rest of you are dismissed. Get some rest. We'll do the private debrief later."

"F-A-B, Commander. Thunderbird Five out." Alan's picture and its window disappeared from the computer screen.

There was a pause, then the group broke up, stretching and yawning. Jeff went about the business of shutting down the computer and the recording equipment. He was weary in body and spirit. Penelope touched his arm lightly as she left, and he gave her a small, wan smile in response to her look of concern. She returned his slight smile, then left him to his work.

It was more like fifteen minutes later that Jeff trudged upstairs to the lounge. Scott was standing by the windows, looking out at the lightening sky, a glass full of amber liquid in his hand. His father frowned; it wasn't like Scott to be drinking at this time of day. He walked over to his desk and plugged his laptop back into its various sockets. Then he sat down and called, "Scott? I'm ready..."

Scott turned, and Jeff was taken aback at the scowl that was developing on his son's face as he crossed the room. Slamming the glass down on his father's desk so hard that it shattered, Scott ignored the blood on his hands from the glass shards. He leaned over to look his father in the eye and shout, "What the_ hell _are we doing!"


	16. Confrontations

_Author's Note: _Jeff and Scott face off! Who will come out on top? And for those of you who have been begging... the return of Lou! My thanks to Hobbeth for advice and betareading.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Math Girl: **No, Scott is not taking this very well. And you'll see how poorly in this chapter. And your concerns are also addressed here in this chapter. More detail on the Hood, too.

**FrankieC: **We hadn't heard much from Alan, and he's got to be affected by this, too. The cliffhanger is resolved here and I'm so glad you're hanging onto every word!

**fellowriverrat: **Well, you'll get to see who comes out on top in this clash of wills. The Penelope/Jeff interaction has different meanings for each of the characters involved. Thanks for the good words about my characterizations, even of the bad guys. I'm still chewing over how the good guys are going to triumph. And surprises? You know me well enough by now.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

"What the hell do you mean by that?" Jeff growled back. He pinched the bridge of his nose; a headache was starting, fueled by lack of sleep and the heavily emotional undertones of the debriefing. 

"I'll elaborate," Scott snapped, smacking the desk top with the flat of his uninjured hand. "What the hell do we think we're doing, sending out these... _civilians_... to do a job that they're not trained for? Our agents go out at your command, armed with little more than their own experience and common sense, into dangerous situations against people who will stop at nothing!"

_Didn't I just have this conversation with Virgil?_ Jeff asked himself, now rubbing the bridge of his nose and trying hard to keep his eyes open and his mind focused on what his eldest son was saying.

Scott continued. "Look at this last so-called 'intelligence gathering' foray! We send in a clueless aristocrat who figures that a brunette wig and some phony papers would camouflage her, and whose shapely ass we've had to pull out of the fire more than once for doing similarly stupid things. She's backed up by an ex-convict, a female firefighter, a doctor who hates guns, and an arthritic cab driver! Some covert operation! And what happens? Everything goes sour; the agent's cover is blown, the back up crew has to go in and extract the dumb blonde and we end up with a fatality! I'm surprised we haven't had one before this!"

He spun away from the desk, walking out into the lounge with his hands spread wide. "Now, we have agents questioning whether what they are doing is worth the cost... and a young family deprived of both husband and father!" He turned suddenly, returning to the desk to stab a finger at Jeff. "What the_ hell _were you thinking? And what do you propose to do about it?"

All during Scott's tirade, Jeff's eyes narrowed and he pressed his lips together tightly. His headache was growing even as his fuse was shrinking. When Scott asked him those last two questions, he stood suddenly, and put one hand on his desk, then leaned over and grabbed Scott by the shirt with the other. Scott didn't back down, instead, his hard blue eyes matched those of his father's as they glared at each other, their faces inches apart.

"Now," Jeff said, in a rumbling voice both dangerous and level. "You listen to me. First, you will_ not _speak of Lady Penelope that way_ ever _again. She is a friend of this family and will be treated with the deference and respect that she deserves." He paused for a quick breath. "Second, no one could have possibly foreseen that the man she went to visit was our enemy and hers, the Hood. Not me, not Penelope, _no one_. Nor could we predict that she would be recognized."

He let go of Scott's shirt and came out from behind his desk, every step measured and deliberate. Scott folded his arms across his chest, his and his father's eyes still locked together. "And even though the actual mission went sour, our operatives achieved their objective and we gained some invaluable intelligence in the process. Now we know where the true threat to our security comes from and we can better plan to meet that threat head on."

His voice softened. "I am sorry about Peter. He was a good agent and a good man, and he'll be missed. You know I'll make sure his family wants for nothing..."

"Nothing but Peter, that is," Scott replied savagely. "You don't get it, do you, Father? Our agents, _your_ agents, aren't cut out for this! No damn training! No damn equipment, other than that fancy communications crap you give them! They used to keep an eye on things for us around the world, but it took someone from the outside to discover this damn plot! The agents who should have alerted us had no damn clue! And they can't just call us up if they get into a bind. The only one who possibly has that option is your girlfriend." He shook his head. "You expect too damn much of them, Dad. Just too damn much."

"So, what the hell do you expect me to do?" Jeff was angry again, and not just because of Scott's tone and attitude. "And for the record, Lady Penelope is_ not _my 'girlfriend'. Never has been, never will be."

"Could have fooled me!" Scott shot back. "What do I expect you to do? Disband the whole damn network! I bet that if you went through the lists you wouldn't find a dozen people who could do what you expected of Peter and the other agents last night! And don't tell me that Penelope is trained to do this either! We've had to save her pretty little ass far too often. She missed something important when she took Espionage 101!"

There was a long moment of silence, then Jeff asked curtly, "Are you through?"

"No," Scott barked. "_I _should have been able to use a missile instead of sending Peter in with an incendiary. He'd still be alive today if you had let _me_ take out... whatever it was he took out. Everyone could have gotten out of there in one piece..."

"NO!" Jeff roared, his face suffusing red with anger. "I told you then and I'm telling you again now! I was not going to give that bastard Alvarez _any_ ammunition whatsoever against us! And I'll stand by that call, especially now since I know who he really is! It's bad enough that he may have gotten vid of you attacking that damned helijet! Heaven help us if he did, because he'll twist it and find a way to nail our asses to the wall with it!" He stepped forward again and stabbed his immobile son's chest with a finger. "Do not second guess my orders! I have my reasons for them and I'll stand by those reasons!"

Father and son glared at each other again, then Jeff made a motion toward the door. "Get the hell out of my office. Come back and talk to me when you're sane again."

Scott held his pose for another moment, then turned and wordlessly stalked out of the room, slamming the ornate grillwork door between the lounge and the study with a resounding bang! He wished he could have done the same to the door to the study, but that one swished obediently out of his way before he reached it. It was only when he reached the hall that he noticed a sharp pain in his hand. Looking down, he saw slivers of glass embedded in his palm, and slices of red across his fingers.

"Damn," he said softly and with disgust, then he lifted his telecomm to ask Brains for some medical help.

Jeff watched his eldest son go, his red face losing its bright color as he outwardly calmed. The door's slamming didn't even make him wince but he didn't move until he was sure Scott was out of the study. Then he returned to his desk. Sitting down heavily in his chair, he leaned forward on his elbows, raising trembling fingers to rub his throbbing temples. His motion pushed the laptop forward and it bumped the remains of the broken glass, which fell and shattered. He sighed, then pushed a button on his desk.

"Kyrano?"

"Yes, Mr. Tracy?"

"Please bring a dustpan and broom to the lounge."

xxxx

"Mr. Edwards?"

The tall blond man favored the rental agent with a smile. "Yes. I'm Derek Edwards."

"Your rental plane is ready, sir." The mustachioed man behind the counter held out a card with a chip in it. It would be used to activate the ignition system and allow the customer to actually start the plane. Without it, the aircraft went nowhere "Have a safe trip."

"Thank you."

Jim Franks sauntered out to the tarmac. He had to wait for the officious little man behind the counter to deal with Ramirez first; after all, the secretary of a World Government minister took precedence over a mere traveler. But once the more important client was dealt with and sent on his way (in a rented helijet, flown by His Excellency's personal pilot), the clerk extended the same courtesy and quick service to Franks as he had to Ramirez.

The blond slung his bags into the passenger compartment of the plane. It was a trim little craft, subsonic, but that didn't bother him. He would pick up something with a little more power in Havana and then jet on to Asheville. He really didn't expect to find Lucinda still loitering around Asheville. _Knowing her, she probably went into hiding the very next day. _But she had neighbors, and they might be persuaded to tell him what he wanted to know. _And if that doesn't work, I still have one more way to flush her out, _he thought as he strapped himself in and began to familiarize himself with the controls. Starting the plane, he asked for clearance from the tower. _Luci, here I come, _he thought as he taxied down the runway and the little aircraft lifted into the blue Caribbean sky.

xxxx

"Alvarez" picked up the folder that "Alison" has left, and strode out of the hacienda. He took a well-worn path into the foliage surrounding the house, brushing aside the greenery that kept growing back and hanging over the pathway. Fifteen minutes of walking brought him to a small cement block building in the middle of the jungle. An armed guard, well shaded from the hazy sunshine, threw down his cigarette and jumped to attention as he approached.

"Is he awake?" Alvarez asked in the local patois.

The guard shrugged. "I think so." He received a searing glance for his answer, then sat back down in the shade.

The false minister put a palm up to the pad beside the door and it opened obediently for him. He stepped inside, squinting a little at the difference between the bright sun outside and the dreary, barely lit interior of the building. Once his eyes adjusted, he walked down a short corridor and knocked on a door. It opened, and another man, large like one of his bodyguards, peered out. Seeing who it was, the man pulled out a handgun, and stepped into the hallway. "Come," is all the command he needed.

Across the hall, and down a few yards was another door, this one with a lock similar to the one on the building. The guard cocked his pistol, and leaned up against the wall next to the door. His employer put his hand up to the palm scanner and the door swished open. The bodyguard reacted quickly, entering the room before "Alvarez".

They needn't have bothered. The man they came to see was curled up on the filthy bed, staring off into space. He was thin, but not emaciated, and his greying hair, long and wild, almost covered the part of his face that a dark, bushy beard did not. He wore a pair of filthy, wrinkled, cotton trousers, now too big for his frame, and a stained t-shirt.

"Carlos!" Gaat called. "Carlos! Can you hear me?"

There was no response other than a convulsive tightening of the figure's huddle. The eyes now looked down, and the limbs were pulled closer to the body.

Gaat made a noise of disgust, and strode over to the pitiful creature. He grabbed a skinny wrist, and attempted to pull the arm away from the body. But the real Alvarez, for this shell of a man was he, fought back simply by tightening already lean muscles, holding his hand back by sheer, unthinking reflex.

His assailant let go of his wrist, grabbed him by his lank and greasy locks and forced his head up. His eyes were tightly closed, but a few cuffs to the face caused him both to whimper and to open his dark, hopeless eyes.

It was all Gaat needed. His eyes flared a sickening yellow and burned into the orbs of Alvarez. He uttered a word of command.

"Give me your right hand."

Slowly, the wreck reached out with his right hand, and Gaat grabbed it. Positioning the folder's lock beneath the dirt-encrusted thumb, he pressed the two together. The little lock thought for a moment, then flared green, and an audible "snick" signaled its release. Gaat dropped Alvarez's hand, then turned and left the room. The bodyguard followed, keeping his eyes on the real minister as he backed out. The door swished shut on the figure, still reaching blindly out with his right hand.

His mission completed, Gaat put on the mantle of the security minister once more and walked back to the main house without a thought spared for the poor wretch he had left behind. He stepped into the cool halls and entered the office, putting the folder on the desk. A bodyguard came to the door and knocked.

"Yes, Paulo?"

"The Interpol inspector is here."

"Excellent. Show her in."

He schooled his features to a deep, concerned frown and turned to meet the representative from the police.

xxxx

The headache was still there, even after a dose of pain reliever. Jeff had tossed and turned on his bed for more than an hour, his mind wrestling with what both of his sons had said.

_How **can** I dismantle the agents' network? The agents have been helpful in many ways and I don't see how we can function without them. As for Penelope, this **is** what she trained for. She's had a lot of successes. But Scott is right; she's made a good number of errors as well, errors that have very nearly been fatal. What do I do? How can I ask her to step down? Do I even want to?_

He got up, his mind still whirling. _It's obvious I'm not going to get any sleep. I need to get away from the situation for a little bit; clear my head. Maybe a walk on the beach would help._

Taking out some clean clothes, he dressed in shorts, a light polo shirt, and put his feet into a pair of leather sandals. He gave a quick glance to his dresser, where his telecomm lay. _No. I need to be away from the family. They'll know where I am thanks to the chip... _His eyes lighted on his satellite phone. _But... I could use some advice. _Slipping the device into his pocket, he opened the glass door that led directly to the balcony, and headed away and down to the beach.

xxxx

_Damn these old houses and their antiquated plumbing!_

Cindy Lou stood over the toilet in the master bedroom's_ en suite _bath, a plunger held in her hand. The tile floor around her was covered with sopping wet towels, evidence of the household malfunction that had disrupted her afternoon. She reached out and pulled the opaque tape she had covered the sensor with to keepthe commode from flushing. Removal of the tape caused the mechanism to do its job and she stared at the porcelain fixture as if daring it to overflow again. Spot wandered in, sniffing at the towels, then looking up, she favored her owner with a questioning, "Mayow?"

"Whatchu lookin' at, cat?" Cindy Lou asked with a frown. The cat picked up one wet paw and shook it, then turned around and stalked out.

"Well, at least the damn thin's workin' agin," she said with satisfaction, putting the plunger back where it belonged. She bundled the wet towels into a basket and hauled the heavy, sodden load down to her kitchen, then down to the basement from there. She filled the washing machine with half of the towels, and started it up. As she pushed the button, she heard the ringing of her vidphone. "Damn. What lousy timin'."

Taking the stairs two at a time, she skidded into the kitchen, and hurried over to the vidphone. It rang again as she pushed her red curls back into place and took a deep breath. Then, pressing the button for picture and voice, she said, "Hello, Cindy Lou heah. Who may Ah ask is callin'?"

"It's me. Jeff." was the answer. He sat out on the beach, returned to a spot that he had discovered years before when he was stranded there during his astronaut training. He pulled the phone away from his ear so he could see the red-haired woman with the big smile. He returned the smile, though halfheartedly. "Hi, stranger."

"Hello theah! It's good t' see yew," she replied. Her smile faltered a little. "What's th' mattah? Wheah ah yew?"

He sighed. "Out on the beach. Using my satellite phone. I--I needed to get away. There's been a... tragedy... a death..."

Her eyes widened and she gasped, "A deahth? Who? When?"

"Listen, can we dispense with Cindy Lou? I'd rather talk to... just Lou."

"Is yoah phone secure?"

"As secure as it can be."

She nodded. "Well then, shoah, sugah. Jes' a minit." The screen went dark, the words in white proclaiming he was "On Hold". He let the phone down for a moment and ran a hand through his hair, trying to get his thoughts in order.

Cindy Lou strode through her house until she came to her office. Closing the door firmly behind her, she shut the blinds and pulled the curtains across, then went to her desk.

"Shoo, Moofums!" She waved a hand at the fluffy gray cat that was curled up on her chair. Moofums got down, and walked away just a few feet, deciding it was time to sit and groom her nether parts. Cindy Lou ignored her, sat down on the warmed chair, and transferred the call from the kitchen to the office and her own satellite phone. Jeff's startled face filled her screen.

"Okay, Jeff. I'm here. Now, tell me everything."

It took a long time for Jeff to tell Lou everything, mostly because though he thought his phone was secure, he still felt the need to mask much of what he was saying. He went over what he'd heard in the debriefing, and the confrontations he had with both of his sons. "The problem is, Lou, that they both have good points. Many of our employees _don't_ have the training to do what I might ask of them and could possibly end up in a situation that's way over their heads."

Lou nodded. "I did wonder a bit at what you expected little Mrs. Soo to do there in the hospital. She wasn't exactly armed and if someone came in who was, she could have gotten hurt before she was able to holler for help."

He groaned, and looked down. "You're right. I had expected her to call for help if someone came after you again. I... I wasn't thinking of weapons."

"Jefferson Tracy, sometimes you are an incorrigible idealist," Lou said with a smile and a shake of her head. Then her face grew sober. "Unfortunately, we don't live in the best of all possible worlds. Maybe it's time for you to look at your network again and make some changes."

"Maybe. Or maybe I should just shelve the whole idea. Get rid of it, like Scott said."

"Jeff, has the network been helpful? Have your employees been of assistance?"

"Yes, of course. Remember when there were some imposters posing as members of our 'family business' a couple of years ago?"

Lou thought for a moment. "Yeah. I think so. What happened?"

"There was an astronaut floating around in space and we needed to... retrieve him, but because of the imposters and their crime, we couldn't. We'd be shot out of the sky, or traced back to our base. So we had to find the imposters and fast. One of our people noticed some tire tracks where there should have been none and kept an eye out. He ended up finding the imposters and stopping them."

"Hmm," Lou said, her face showing approval. "Have there been other times where they've been of help?"

"Yes. I can count on them to deliver messages anonymously, to notify security forces that our equipment is on its way and give us names of key people to contact as we come to an incident. Occasionally they've prepared the way for us when we've had to use hospitals for our people, and kept a watchful eye on them while they've been there. They've passed on information that they think would be of use to us or would impact our operations. Very seldom have we used our agents in this manner, as back up for a covert operation."

"Sounds like a lot of what they do is communications oriented."

"Yes, but we've always required them to be flexible, ready to do whatever was needed."

She sat back and regarded him frankly. "Maybe you should go through and perhaps codify what your employees can or can't do; what your expectations are. Treat it like giving them different security levels."

"That's a possibility." He was silent for a moment, then he asked, "Do you think I should tell them about Peter?"

Lou's face was thoughtful. "Yes, I think you should."

"I'm afraid... I'm afraid that I'll lose a lot of operatives. And a lot of friends."

It was Lou's turn to be quiet. Jeff waited for her to speak. Finally, she sighed and said, "Jeff, they have a right to know. A right to know that the job they've undertaken for you isn't a sinecure. And they have the right to choose whether to continue or not." She smiled slightly. "If I were one of your people, I'd want that knowledge. And that choice."

He nodded. Then he asked, half-facetiously, "Would you be one of my employees?"

She chuckled and rolled her eyes. "Figures you'd ask now. Seriously, Jeff. I'll consider it. But not until we get this Franks situation settled once and for all." She sobered. "You know that I don't want that son-of-a-bitch anywhere near you or your island."

"I know."

They were quiet for a few minutes, then Jeff asked, "What's your opinion on... Penelope? Should I ask her to... step down?"

Lou shook her head. "No. I think she should have the same choice as the others. Since she was involved in this last scenario, I'm sure she'll be doing some soul-searching about her role, both in it and in your family business. I know I would be."

"You may be right. In that business with the imposters, she went out to capture them herself. Went out to the back country where this agent, a hillbilly friend of mine, lives. She wore a designer dress and stiletto heels, and if my friend hadn't had a 12-gauge shotgun and his wife didn't can a particularly... ah... combustible type of beans, she may have been shot and killed by the men she went to apprehend."

Lou began to laugh. "Combustible beans? What did they do? Explode on impact?"

Jeff looked sheepish. "Well, uh, yeah."

Lou laughed even louder. "Oh my, Jeff! That would have been something to see! Organic explosives! Has this employee thought of manufacturing them?"

Jeff smiled. "No, I don't think so. Perhaps I should mention it to him."

"Perhaps you should." She calmed down, then asked suddenly, "Does Mrs. Soo know Chinese? I mean, can she read it, translate it?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so. She's third or fourth generation Chinese, I think."

"Oh, okay," she replied.

"Why do you ask?"

Lou grimaced. "I got a communication from my friend Tony Cho the other day. I've been able to get it roughly translated, but there are a couple of characters that are defying the software I'm using. I was looking for someone live to decipher it for me. I think it's important and it has something to do with your family business."

"Hmm. John might be able to do the job. He's fluent in Cantonese and Mandarin. Pass it along via Marvin and I'll see what he can do." Suddenly, he remembered his conversation with Piers Donovan. "Speaking of Tony Cho, a Mr. Piers Donovan, from Interpol, wanted to talk to you about an Anthony Cho. Is that the same person?"

Lou nodded. "Yes." Her brows knit in a frown. "When did you talk to Donovan? What did he want?"

"Oh, he called my New York offices a few days ago and I returned his call. He wanted to get in touch with you and asked for your address or phone number or even an email address. I didn't give him any information, but I did promise I'd pass on the message. I'm sorry it took so long, but this matter with Penelope and finding Franks..."

"I understand, Jeff, really. I'll figure out some way to talk to him and stay anonymous. I wonder what he wants to know about Tony? After all the man is dead... "

"Dead?" Jeff asked, incredulous.

Lou nodded sadly. "Yes. That email message he sent me may have been his last communication. I'll know more when I get a better translation."

They both sat silent for a while, then she asked, "So, when are you coming to New York? I'd like to visit with you again."

Jeff sat up, surprised. "I--I hadn't thought about it. I'll see what I can do."

"Good!" Lou said, smiling. "We can explore my new town together."

"Do you think we can find an Italian place as good as Vincenzo's?"

She shook her head. "No, never. But there's a little Greek restaurant that looks promising. Do _moussaka _and _baklava_ tickle your fancy?"

"Sounds great. I'll let you know when I'm out that way again." He looked up; the sun had risen much higher in the sky that he had anticipated. "We've been on for a long time, haven't we? I bet your cats are getting antsy for food."

"Yes, they are," Lou replied wryly, glancing over at Moofums, who was still in the room, pacing in front of the door and meowing her absurdly tiny "mew". "And I bet your family is looking for you."

"They can find me if they really want to," Jeff explained with a rueful tone. "I am now microchipped."

Lou laughed. "I'm glad you are. Don't want to lose you." Her laughter died down to a smile. "You look whipped, Jeff. Go home and go to bed. Get some rest. Then do what you need to about your employees."

"Will do, Lou. Thanks for the talk and the advice."

"Hey, what are friends for?"

They smiled at each other, each loath to break the connection. But a shout from down the beach drew Jeff's attention. "Gordon's come looking. We'll talk again soon."

"I'll hold you to it. Bye, Jeff."

"Goodbye, Lou." He broke the connection and sighed, then stood and started walking toward Gordon.

Lou sat back in her chair, nibbling thoughtfully on a fingernail. _So, Franks is with Alvarez, and Alvarez isn't himself, but Gaat posing as him. This just became a whole lot more complicated... and dangerous. _Her musings were broken by a fluffy gray and peach body leaping onto her desk and walking back and forth before her keyboard. "Moofums! Okay, okay. I get the message. C'mon. Dinner for you and the others, and a quick supper for myself. Then, forward that email to Jeff and do some more investigation into that anti-IR website."


	17. Making Plans

_Author's Note: _Sorry this update took so long, but I was on vacation for a week in the oil country of New Mexico and though I did get to write a little, I immediately edited it and added to it when I got home. I'll be trying to find a way to integrate my experiences in my writing, maybe in a rescue. My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading, and to EllieET for a great new word.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**FrankieC: **Thanks for the good words about the confrontation between Jeff and Scott. In some ways they are very much alike; stubborn, willful, and convinced that they are right. Thanks for the good words on Lou's return. She'll be around, working in the background, as you'll see in this chapter.

**Bluegrass: **Thanks for the compliments on my characterization of Scott. I think that if he weren't so distraught and angry over Peter's death, he'd have more control over his mouth. Jeff definitely needed that little walk and that little talk as well.

**fellowriverrat: **Thank you very much for you kind words about the confrontation. You're right about the conflicts that are going to arise in a family. The Tracys are no exception. I'm glad you found Scott's observations to be funny. I've always thought that Penelope had more glamour than sense sometimes. And you're right about Scott's words, though it may take time for him to truly regret what he's said. I'm glad Lou is back, too. You'll see her again, and hopefully in a more active role soon.

**Math Girl: **Ah, the Hood. His cover has been blown as far as IR is concerned, but not the rest of the world. We'll see what IR can do to fix that.

**Mad-Friend: **Thanks for the compliments on John's humor in chapter 15. As for Alan's friend Kenny Malone, we may see him in the chapters to come.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

The vidphone in the lounge rang, and Eleanor hastened from the study to answer it. The picture of a young, red-haired woman filled the screen and Eleanor frowned. The girl licked her lips nervously at the sight of the elderly woman but plunged ahead to ask, "Is this the Tracy residence?" 

"Yes, it is," Eleanor said quickly. "Who is calling?"

"Um... my name is Melissa Riordan, and I'm looking for my friend, Scott Tracy. He said I could call any time..."

Eleanor's face softened. "Melissa! Oh, of course, dear. I'll transfer you to his extension. And may I say how sad I am, how very sad we _all_ are over your loss."

"Thank you, mum," Melissa replied, lowering her eyes and swallowing hard.

"I know what it is to lose a husband, dearie," the older woman went on. "If you need someone to talk to, please feel free..."

"I'll be sure to," Melissa cut in. "May I please speak to Scott?"

"Yes, dear. I'm transferring you now."

Scott groaned as the vidphone in his room began to ring. It felt like he had just gotten to sleep after his confrontation with his father. He had tossed and turned on his bed for what seemed like hours and it took two more shots of Scotch to relax him enough so he could fall asleep. Now someone was calling_. What time is it, anyway? _he thought fuzzily as he got up and padded over to his desk. Sitting down, he keyed in "voice only" at first and said, "Hello. Who's calling?" with just a touch of peevishness in his voice.

"Scott, it's me, Melissa."

His eyes opened wide then and he became fully awake. "Mel! Oh, God. Mel, I'm sorry. Wait just a minute." He got up and grabbed a clean t-shirt from a drawer, slipped it on, then quickly ran a comb through his hair. Returning to his desk, he activated the "voice and picture" option and sat down. "I'm here, Mel. I'm here."

"Did I wake you up? I can call back later."

"No, it's okay, it's okay. I should be getting up anyway." To him, she looked pale and washed out and her eyes were still puffy from crying. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, um, I was wondering if you could put me in touch with that Lady Creighton-Ward," Melissa said. She took a deep, shaky breath. "I'm taking Peter back to Ireland, you see, and I thought... I thought maybe she could help so that his coffin... his body... oh God! This is so hard!"

"Shhh, Mel, shh," Scott said softly. "I can get Lady Penelope for you, yes. What do you need her to do?"

Melissa took another deep breath and Scott could see her square her shoulders. "If I take Peter back home, the coffin is likely to be searched and I--I couldn't bear that. I was hoping your lady friend could do something to prevent it..."

"Ah," Scott replied, nodding his head. He had never fully understood the political and religious conflict that had split Ireland for so many generations and continued into the 21st century. Peter had tried to explain it to him once or twice, tried to explain that, since he had joined the RAF, he couldn't go home to his people, his family. But it had been, and still remained, out of Scott's ken. To him, family was family, no matter the religion or the politics.

"Lady Penelope is staying here at the moment," he told Melissa, pushing aside his current negative feelings toward the woman for the sake of his friend's wife. "I'll see if she's available."

"Oh, Scott, please, would you intervene for me? I don't know that I could speak to her without somebody--I mean, I don't know the woman and you do."

Scott smiled softly. "Sure. I'll speak to her for you. Or, if you want to make the request, I'll be certain to be on hand, in the room, to add my voice."

The look of gratitude on Melissa's face tied his heart up in knots. "Oh, thank you, Scott. You don't know how much this means to me."

"I can guess. I'll see if she's available now, okay?"

"Yes, that's fine."

"I'm going to put you on hold for a moment."

"I'll wait."

Scott pressed the "Hold" button, slipped some shorts on over his boxers, and shrugged into a light cotton shirt, padding barefoot out into the cool, tiled hall, buttoning his buttons as he went. He could hear the telltale sounds of the household awake and at work. The guest rooms were around the corner from his own and as he made his way toward them, his stride slowed. The argument with his father flashed up before him and he found himself flexing his left hand, bandaged lightly to keep the dirt out of the surgically glued gashes. His words about Penelope came back clearly, making him wince internally. _But I'm right. I know I am, _he assured himself. _If she had taken more care, Peter might be alive now. _With this thought to sustain him, he pressed the buzzer at the side of the guest room door.

"Who is it?"

Scott was surprised to hear her voice. Usually Parker would be the one to greet any visitor to her Ladyship's quarters. _Wonder where he is? _Scott took a deep breath and replied, "It's Scott."

"Please wait. I am coming."

It took a moment, but the door finally swished open and Lady Penelope stood before him. She was dressed in dark slacks and a plain white blouse instead of her usual, flamboyant pink. Her bandaged feet were clad in simple slippers, and her hair was pulled back severely and gathered at the nape of her neck. All in all she looked subdued and tired. Still, she smiled at him and invited him in.

"What brings you here, Scott?"

Without preface, he said gruffly, "Melissa Riordan is on the phone. She would like to ask a favor of you."

Penelope's eyes widened a bit, and she let out a little, "Oh!" Then she turned to the vidphone in the guest room. "Can you transfer her here?"

Scott nodded, and proceeded to do so. Melissa's red-rimmed eyes looked worse than before, and Scott suspected she had been crying while she waited for him. At the sight of the aristocrat's face, she started. "I'm sorry... I didn't expect..."

"Scott transferred your call to me," Penelope explained in a soothing voice. "How are you, Melissa?"

The redhead cast her moist eyes downward and said frankly, "I could be better. Much, much better."

"I know. This is very difficult for you," the aristocrat murmured sympathetically. "Scott says you have a favor to ask. Name it, and if I can do it, I shall."

"He didn't tell you what the favor was?"

The blonde turned slightly in her chair to look up at Scott. "No, I am afraid he did not. Scott?"

He huffed out a breath. "I didn't know if Melissa wanted to ask you herself." Standing straight and tall over Penelope, with his hands behind his back, he explained in a flat voice, "The favor is this: Melissa is taking Peter's body back to Ireland for burial. Because of the political situation there, his coffin would very likely be opened and searched. Melissa would like to avoid that if she can, and is asking you to help."

Penelope studied Scott's face for a moment, noting the set jaw and the slight frown between his eyes, then turned to Melissa. "I do not have any diplomatic powers of my own, Melissa, but I know people who do. I shall to my best to bring your case before them." _Even if it means having Edward take a hand. _"When will you be leaving Unity City?"

"The day after tomorrow. It will take that long for the bo-... for Peter..." Melissa gulped air and let it out again slowly. Her voice steadied. "It will take that long for preparations to be completed."

Penelope nodded. "I shall act on this at once. Where may I reach you?"

Scott answered from behind her. "She has my satellite phone. You can use that number."

"Excellent. I shall ring you soon, Melissa." The aristocrat leaned in towards the vidphone screen and said softly, "Courage, Melissa. We will find a way."

"Thank you," the new widow replied. She looked beyond the woman for the man in the background. "And thank you, too, Scott. I'll be waiting for your call. Goodbye."

"Goodbye." The call disconnected, and Penelope turned to the eldest Tracy son. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Scott. I shall make a few calls right now and see if I can pull a few strings."

Scott merely nodded, and turned to go. She half rose from her chair and called out, "Scott."

He stopped, his back to her. Seeing that she had his attention, Penelope continued in a soft tone, "I am sorry for the loss of your friend. I did not know him long, or well, but I admired his bravery and his sense of duty. I shall miss him, too."

Scott's shoulders rose at her last sentence. He wanted so much to lash out, to shout that it was all her fault that Peter died, that if she had done her job properly, he would be alive now and in Melissa's arms. But he swallowed it, glanced over his shoulder at her, nodded once, and was gone.

Penelope settled back down into the chair before the vidphone, rested for a moment, then got back up again and went in search of her PDA, the one which had been packed away with her things at the embassy. _At least I know that "Alison's" PDA will do Gaat little good. Now, to find Addison Kennicot's phone number. I shall call her first._

xxxx

Lou sat back in her desk chair with a low whistle. Midnight, who was curled up on a pile of papers at her left hand, stirred, his ears coming up and forward and his yellow eyes slitting open. She mechanically reached a hand over to scratch him between the ears, and the cat subsided with a rumbling purr.

"There's that vid Jeff told me about." Indeed, the few seconds of streaming video, enhanced and edited, was featured on the homepage of the object of her research, along with a headline screaming, "International Rescue Destroys Unarmed Helijet!" She noticed that the form of Thunderbird One had been highlighted and the words "Thunderbird" had been made a startling white. _An unnatural white, given the lighting of the scene. _The men in the helijet held their hands in strange positions, ones that would make sense had they been holding rifles. _But of course, the guns have been removed from the picture. _She shook her head. _Anyone with a bit of sense will see that this is doctored, and doctored heavily. But then, mankind doesn't always have that bit of sense, especially when it comes to dishing dirt. At least there's no sign of the missile that took the helijet out. Just this impossible blaze of fire added to the end._

Frowning, she sat back up and went to check the hit counter of the site. She was sure that the number of hits was artificially inflated somehow, but still, it was rising far too fast for her liking. _I wonder how long it will take the legitimate press to start showing this? Some of the more responsible venues won't; they'll know it's a fake and won't chance getting their asses bit. Still, some will, figuring it's easier to show it, get the ratings, and issue a halfhearted "sorry about that" later. I wish there was something I could do about this site! _

She pulled up her copy of the termite, the one Tony had originally sent, then leaned back in her chair, tapping a stylus on her desktop. "Hmm. Okay, Midnight, let's connect the dots, here. This footage proves that there's a connection between Gaat-Alvarez and the website. Franks was on Alvarez's cay and, given the time frame, he must have been working from there when he infected Interpol's database with the termite. Ergo, Gaat's systems have been infected with the termite too, and it's probably been quarantined and destroyed by now. Otherwise this vid probably would have been corrupted before it reached the website. I'm sure that Gaat, recognizing the threat that the termite could pose, has probably gotten whoever is running this damn thing to add the program to their anti-virus software. So, I can't use the termite... or can I?" A slow smile spread over her face. "Time for a chat with Dee."

xxxx

"That's the last."

Addison Kennicot sat in her home office, yawning as she put the final touches on the last of her official correspondence. _I really should not bring this work home,_ she mused as she stretched tall, hearing her joints crackle with the adjustment. She glanced over at the televid, which she had left on in the background, programmed to raise the volume at the mention of the words "Señor Alvarez", "Minister of Security", or "Alison St. Clair". There had been several reports about Alison's disappearance, its importance waning as the day lengthened and no fresh news was forthcoming. _I do hope she is all right, whether or not she really was Penelope._

The vidphone rang, and Addison looked at it to check on the caller's ID. "Hmm. No information available?" Normally, she wouldn't answer such calls, she would let the screening program pick them up, record a message, and she could return them later if she wanted to. _I'll let the program pick up, but listen to see if it is a call I should take, _she decided, pressing a button on the vidphone to make the recording audible.

The outgoing message played, and a cheerful chime indicated that the caller should record whatever they needed to say. Addison gasped as the familiar, cultured tones began, "Addi, this is your old friend Penelope Creighton-Ward. I find myself..."

Nearly pouncing on the screening program's switch, Addison answered the call, choosing "voice and picture". "Penny? Addi here. I am so terribly glad to hear from you."

Penelope's face appeared on the small screen. Addi looked her old friend over critically. "Are you well, Penny? You look very... tired."

Penelope smiled a bit. "I am... coping. Perhaps you heard about my encounter with a band of pirates? It was a very harrowing experience. But enough about me. How are you? And the children? How is Wesley?"

It was Addison's turn to pale. "Wesley died two years ago, Penny. I ran for his office and have taken his place until the next election."

"Oh, I_ am _sorry, Addi. I should have realized it, but I am afraid I have not been keeping up with my old friends from Rowden as I should. Please forgive me,"

Addi nodded. "Of course, Penny, of course." She brightened a bit and said, "To answer your question, the children are well and so am I. And I did hear about your scrape with our local scoundrels. I am so glad that you were not hurt." Her face sobered. "But it was so very sad about that poor man who died."

"Yes," Penelope replied with a sigh. "Mr. Riordan was a nice man and very brave." She paused for a moment and took a deep breath. "In fact, it is because of him that I have called."

"Oh?"

"Yes. His wife is planning on bringing his body home to Ireland for burial, and she asked me to pull what strings I could to keep the coffin from being searched, as it very well would be. I am turning to you because you live in Unity City, where Mr. and Mrs. Riordan resided."

"Ah," Addison said, her demeanor thoughtful. "You are looking for perhaps a diplomatic solution? Someone to speak to the Irish ambassador about the situation?"

"If you felt that would work," Penelope said. "I was also thinking of allowing Mr. Riordan's remains to travel under diplomatic immunity, if that is possible. There may be some difficulty with the ambassador as Mr. Riordan was in the RAF."

Addi nodded again. "I see. That could create a bit of a kerfuffle, yes." She smiled a bit. "Leave the situation with me. I shall speak to both the ambassador and the senator and if I get no response, I shall use my own authority and clearances tosee the man home. When is the body being transported?"

"The day after tomorrow, your time," Penelope said, relieved. "Oh, Addi, you don't know how grateful I am, and how grateful the widow will be."

"It is all in an evening's work," Addi said with a wry smile. Her smile faded, and she studied Penelope's face, her forehead furrowed as if deciding something. Then her countenance relaxed and she took a deep breath, letting it out through her nose, as if punctuating her decision. She hesitated a moment more before saying slowly, "You know, Penny, perhaps there is something you could do for me in return."

"What is it?" Penelope asked, curious.

"I met a young woman in my office a few days ago. Her name was Alison St. Clair, an aide to Mr. Trelawney, the Prime Minister. She reminded me very much of you, in fact. She has disappeared from the Minister of Security's private cay."

"Oh, really?" the aristocrat drawled, trying hard to appear interested without giving herself away.

"Yes. If you happen to meet Ms. St. Clair in your travels, please let her know that His Excellency is ordering a _full _investigation into her disappearance. He is a tenacious man... and a formidable enemy."

Penelope looked into her friend's eyes. She briefly considered denying that she knew this "Alison St. Clair" at all, but there was a certain knowing glint to Addison's gaze, and Penelope suddenly realized that she had fooled no one with her disguise; not Gaat and not her old school chum.

"I... shall tell her," she replied, giving both a tacit acknowledgement of the warning and a subtle admission to Addison's deduction.

The senator looked relieved. 'Thank you, Penny. Now, I must go. The Irish senator keeps late hours, but their ambassador does not. I should be able to catch at least one now, and the other in the morning. Where may I contact you?"

"Here is the number for my satellite phone," Penny replied, rattling off a string of numbers. "I am staying with friends so I cannot be reached at Foxleyheath."

"I understand. Take care, Penny. I shall call you soon," Addison said firmly.

"And you, Addi. I shall expect your call. Goodbye." Penelope terminated the call and sighed. _It looks like I shall have to employ some different methods of disguise in the future. If there is a future... _She shook her head at her own failure.

The buzzer sounded, indicating someone was outside her door. "Who is it?" she called.

"T'is me, Milady. Wiv Mr. Brains."

"Come in."

The door opened, and Parker, followed by the engineer, entered the room. Parker was carefully holding a glass of foul-looking liquid. "Transmitter solvent, Milady," he explained. "Ye've got t' drink h'it so Mr. Brains 'ere kin put h'a locator chip."

"M-Mr. Tracy's, uh, orders," Brains said, smiling sheepishly.

"Of course." Penelope took the proffered glass, looked at it, and tried to stifle her resigned sigh. Then she held her nose, and drank the mess down, stopping for breath only once.

"There naow, Milady. All done," Parker said, smiling as he took the empty glass she thrust at him.

"It will t-take thirty minutes for the solvent to, uh, t-take effect," Brains explained. "I'll call Tin-Tin or, uh, Mrs. Tracy in to o-observe when you're ready."

"Very good, Brains. Now, if you will excuse me, I wish to have some time alone while the solvent does its work."

"S-Sure, Lady Penelope," Brains stammered. He turned to leave, glancing once at Parker to see if the chauffeur was coming.

"You may go, Parker. I shall be fine."

Parker opened his mouth as if to protest, but thought better of it. "Yus, Milady." He left, letting the door swish shut behind him.

Penelope moved over to the bed and lay down carefully. She laced her fingers together, laid her hands at her waist, and stared at the ceiling. But she didn't really see it. Instead she saw the interior of FAB-1, her mind going back to the smells, the sights, and the sounds of that moment when Peter entrusted his last words to her.

_"An' tell th' boss... t'wus worth it."_

_I do not know if I can, Peter. Because the more I look at it, the less I agree with you._

xxxx

"Damn!" Deirdre shook her singed finger. She put down her micro solder gun and pulled up her magnifying goggles to examine the burn. Sighing, she got up and strode over to her workroom sink to run cold water over the injury. As the water soothed the burn, she let her mind wander to a missive she had received earlier that day. _That email I got from Hiram was pretty sketchy. Something about working for his employer? He worked for Tracy Industries last I heard, but... what could **I** do for them? I'm not into designing big things; gadgets are more my style. _She absently watched the clear liquid cascade out of the tap and over the top of her finger. _Could I work in the corporate world again? I hated having a boss! My time was never my own, and my designs? My employers always took away my rights to them. I'd much rather be working for myself, even if it means less money. Hiram's going to have to come up with some really good reasons for me to join the workforce at Tracy Industries!_

Her computer dinged at her. "Hmm. Mail or conversation?" she asked herself aloud. Turning to see her monitor, she saw a message window pop up. She shook the water off her finger, dried it carefully, and headed over to the plasma screen.

"Hey, Dee." The words glowed blue in the little pop-up box. She checked the email address of the person who was using the instant messenger, but there was none listed_. No email? Could it be Lou?_ She sat down in front of the computer, and put her fingers on the keyboard. "Lou? Is that you?" she typed.

The words, "Who else?" quickly appeared on her screen.

With a verbal "tch", she typed, "Where the hell have you been?"

"Around. We need to 'talk'."

"Voice and picture or text?"

"Voice only," was the answer.

Dee put on her boom mike and earphones ensemble, then punched in the key for switching the conversation over to voice. "Hey, Lou, how's things? You could have called, y'know."

"Things are hairy, Dee, and I didn't feel comfortable calling since I'm running under the radar. That wireless connection you helped me debug can't be traced, but a phone call leaves a record," Lou said, speaking quickly. "Listen, Dee. I've got a big problem. I've discovered a situation where a good organization is being put through a smear and blackmail campaign. I want totake downthe main source of the mud and I need a..."

Dee huffed in exasperation. "Lou, whatever it is, I can't! I'm swamped! I'm making the revisions to the bug detector you sent back. I'm fielding inquiries about my presentation at that conference. And Hiram has asked me to help him out on a big project for his employer. Not to mention that spring break is coming and my mother will be visiting!"

Lou sighed resignedly. "I know, Dee. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

"What's so important about it? Who is it for?" She stopped as a URL link appeared in her text box. Frowning, she asked, "What's this, Lou?"

"The site I want to... deal with. You asked who it was for. This will tell you."

Dee shook her head, and clicked on the link. Lou waited and listened for her reaction.

"What! That can't be... no way! Where do they get this...? The bastards! Lou, _who_ is behind this? It's _so_ wrong! All lies!"

"Who's behind it? Only someone who wants to smear IR and make the public hate them so they can be blackmailed either into working for the bastards or into shutting down entirely. I stumbled across the plot before I left Interpol and I've been trying to spike it as best I can."

There was a silence on the other end, then, "Does this have anything to do with that... incident at your house in Asheville?"

Lou paused before answering in a low and serious tone, "It has everything to do with that incident."

"Hmm." Dee remarked. "I thought it might." She stopped for an audible breath, then asked, "What do you need?"

"Software. Something along the lines of a 'search and destroy' but with replicating abilities. You wouldn't be creating a new program, just upgrading one that I already have."

Dee's frown deepened. "How come you didn't go to Cho about this? He's your usual... ah... provider."

Lou's voice got very somber. "I did, Dee. He created a termite for me, one where I could set the parameters myself. That's the program I mentioned. Problem is, now he's dead."

There was another silence at Dee's end. "Dead?"

"Yeah. It looks like he got in with some dangerous people. I'm not sure who yet, but I _am_ sure it has something to do with this whole hellish mess." She paused. "I want to use the termite that Cho built for me to deep-six this site. But for me to do that, it needs some upgrades."

"What kind of upgrades?"

"I need you to infect it and make it an egg layer." Lou could almost hear Dee biting her lower lip. "Girlfriend, you know I wouldn't ask..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You wouldn't ask if it weren't important. I'm just weighing the importance of it against the word, 'dead'."

Lou let out an exasperated snort. "Dee, part of the reason Cho bought it was that his 'client' stiffed him and he hacked into their bank account to get his money. You're not planning on doing that to _me_, are you?"

She could almost hear Dee's eyes rolling as she answered sarcastically, "Hmph. Hardly. Especially when I consider just where you keep your ill-gotten gains."

"Okay then." Lou crossed her fingers, hoping that her friend would take up the challenge. "Look, no one knows who you are, or where you are, and I'm not about to tell anybody. You understand what could happen. If this site continues smearing the entity in question, it could shut them down." Her voice softened. "And you and I both know that you have a really good reason to want this cesspool drained."

Dee was quiet for a long time after that, and Lou thought that maybe this time she had stepped over the line. Reynaldo, Deirdre's husband, had been on the maiden flight of the _Fireflash_, the supersonic plane that was nearly destroyed by a saboteur's bomb. Dee had been hysterical over the imminent disaster, and she had called Lou, who was in London at the time, to get what information she could. The Interpol officer had done her best to calm her friend long distance, but it was only when the mysterious "International Rescue" had helped Fireflash to land safely that the distraught wife and mother had ended her worried frenzy.

Lou was so wrapped up in her memory of the events that she started when Dee softly said, "Send it on."

Letting go of her crossed fingers, Lou typed in a few keystrokes and the file was sent. "Incoming. This one is blank, but I think you can extrapolate what kinds of parameters I'll need."

"What do you want me to do with it when I'm done?"

"Dump it in my 'Mr. Knox' box. I'll take it from there. Label it, 'Her Majesty'." Lou took a deep breath before saying, "This is priority, Dee."

"I know. Have you thought of how you'll deliver this?"

"Yeah, a little. These bastards have an email scanning program, one that targets anything to do with their victim. I may be able to use it to my advantage." She tapped a few more keys. "I'm sending that to you, too, so you'll know better how to craft the virus part of the upgrade."

"Got it. I'll get back to you as soon as I can." Dee sighed. "How much longer will you be undercover?"

"I don't know, Dee. I just don't know."

"Tell me when we can actually see each other again, okay? I'm starving for a good cup of coffee and some girl talk."

Lou smiled, even though Dee couldn't see it. "I will, but don't be surprised if there are a few... changes when we see each other face to face."

"I'll try not to be. You take care now, y'hear?"

"I hear. It's been good to talk to you, Dee. Give my love to the kids and my regards to Reynaldo."

"I'm glad you put it that way. When it comes to him, I don't share."

The two friends laughed a bit, then Lou said, "Bye, Dee."

"Bye, Lou. And don't worry. I'm on this."

Dee closed the connection. Her nose wrinkled as she smelled something hot. Glancing around, she saw the soldering iron in its cradle, still activated. "Damn!" she muttered under her breath as she reached over to turn it off.

Lou sat back, closing the dialogue box, and gnawing absently on a thumbnail. She looked over at Midnight, who was still curled up on the papers, then sighed. Scratching him between the ears again, she said in her best Cindy Lou drawl, "Well, Mistah Midnight suh, looks like it's back t' owah reg'larly scheduled altah ego."

xxxx

The Cuban night was warm and sultry and Jim Franks sat on the balcony of his Havana hotel room, a longneck bottle of beer in his hand. He hadn't had any trouble flying to the island nation and his alternate identity passed muster at customs. His plans for the next day included a refueling stop in Miami, then on to Asheville and a quick look around for his quarry. _If I can't find her in the general vicinity, I put "Plan B" into action. Better make sure I have some warm clothes packed for that possibility. That part of the States can get pretty cold, even in March._


	18. Contemplations in Rose

_Author's Note: _More angst and confrontations, and yes, Virgil fans, Virgil talks to Penelope... heh, heh, heh. My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading, and to fellowriverrat and Bluegrass for advice, and especially Bluegrass for giving me instruction in Ulster Belfast idioms.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Math Girl: **Yes, everyone is still stunned, and this will take time to get over. Penelope is thinking about more than her methods, though, and Lou? She'll be back soon.

**Mad-Friend: **Well, no one ever said the Hood was in his right mind, now did they? Lou's still working away, with a little help from her friends. And "mine field" is a very appropriate description of this plot. Oy.

**Bloglover: **Thanks for the heads up on "Rowden". Fact is, the school you mention is actually called "Rowden House" (www(dot)rowden(dot)co(dot)uk). Chris Bentley, in his book, _The Complete Book of Thunderbirds_, states quite clearly that Lady Penelope went to a school named "Rowden" (p. 59). _Masquerade_ is set in the late 2060's, and there is always the possibility that another, different "Rowden" could be established by then. I'm sure that had Mr. Bentley been aware of "Rowden House" at the time, he would not have used the name; or perhaps he _was_ aware and is having a little joke at her Ladyship's expense. In any case, I'm going to stick with the name given in the authorized materials. Thanks again.

**FrankieC: **Thanks for the welcome home! Somehow, the troubles of Ireland seemed to fit in here very well, and, though we can hope for reconciliation in the future, there are no guarantees. Franks will surface again, like the snake he is, but as for the "idiot child"? Well, read on.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

John carefully studied the file that Lou had sent and his father had forwarded to him. Tony Cho had written his email in Hanyu Pinyin, the alphabet that made his Mandarin easier to read for Westerners. But to translate it properly, John had to read it out loud. As he did, he wrote the words down on a data pad as they were, not trying to put it into idiomatic English at this point. Suddenly, he came up on something that made him frown. _What are those characters doing there? And why did this guy set them apart? Weird. There must have been something that he wanted to keep obscured. I'll come back and puzzle it out when I'm finished with the main translation._

He had just about finished translating the whole missive when there was a knock on his door. "Come in," he said distractedly. The door swished open, but John didn't look up to see who it was. He was so close to the end and so engrossed in what he was doing that he jumped and let out a little "Agh!" when someone tapped him heavily on the shoulder. He turned to see the bemused face of his oldest brother looking back at him. "Scott!"

"Hey, John. Sorry I startled you," Scott said, taking one of the comfortable chairs in his brother's room. "What's so fascinating?"

John swiveled his desk chair around to face his brother. He waved an arm at the computer screen. "I'm translating an email that Aunt Lou sent. It's in Mandarin, and there's a couple of odd characters that Lou's program wouldn't translate. Dad thought I could help."

"Hmph," Scott grunted.

"So, what brings you here, bro?" John asked. He got up, twirled his chair around, and sat in it backwards, his arms draped loosely over the back. "You've got my undivided attention."

Scott put one ankle up on the opposite knee. "I'm here to find out what you meant when you said Virgil 'dropped' the pod when he said he 'lowered' it."

John looked sheepish, and rubbed the back of his head. "Oh, that. It was nothing, Scott. We were getting on each other's nerves and..."

Scott cut in. "It's not nothing, John. I know you're very precise when it comes to what you say and if the two of you disagree on how something was handled, I want to know why. Now, why were you getting on each other's nerves?"

The blond looked away and then down before meeting his brother's eyes. "Well, I had gotten things ready in the sickbay and he called down to see how it was going. Then he told me to come up and pilot Two for him."

This got Scott to sit up straight and put his raised foot back on the floor. "He what?"

"He told me to pilot Two for him."

"That's weird. Did he give you a reason?"

"Well, at first he said that he wanted to be the one to meet FAB-1 in the pod," John explained. "When I... uh... reminded him that I wasn't as good a pilot on Two as he was and pressed him for more details, he clammed up about it then got sarcastic. By that point we were both good and irritated with each other. He gave me three minutes to get back to the pod before he dropped it."

"Only three minutes?" Scott unconsciously reached up to rub his stubbled chin with the back of a finger.

"Yeah. I ran back and had just enough time to strap myself into the Firefly when the pod dropped. And I do mean, _dropped_." John put one hand out horizontally and smacked it with the other for emphasis. "Just like he used to do to pod four before Gordon started complaining. It must have been a half dozen meters or more. Felt like I left my stomach behind somewhere."

Scott's eyes narrowed as he gazed at John's rueful face. "He didn't give you any more explanation as to why he wanted to be the one to greet FAB-1?"

The younger man shook his head. "Nope. And he was really snarky and impatient when we were waiting for you to come back. Fortunately, he bottled it up when Brigitte came onto the flight deck."

"Brigitte?"

John grinned at his brother. "Yeah, Brigitte. You know, that tall, beautiful blonde. She's a firefighter during the day. Said she helped that doctor with Peter..." His words trailed off when he saw Scott suddenly glance away. He got up from his chair and went to his brother, crouching so that he was roughly eye level with the seated Scott. "Hey, Scotty. I am sorry about Pete. He was a great guy, one of a kind. I'm going to miss him, too."

The older man didn't say anything for a moment, but finally turned his eyes to his brother and said softly, "Thanks, Johnny." He paused again, then continued. "It all doesn't seem real, y'know. Kinda like when Mom and Gramps died. It took a while to get used to the fact that they were gone, that the phone calls I'd get from home weren't from Mom, and that I wouldn't see Gramps coming through the door to visit like he used to." He took a deep breath and let it out. "And it's not like Pete and I had seen much of each other lately. But still... I always knew he was there to talk to, to visit when I went to the offices in Unity City. Now he's not there anymore." He took his eyes away and looked out the window. "I guess I feel worst about Melissa and the kids. They've lost so much...," Scott suddenly propelled himself out of the chair, nearly knocking John over in the process. "Dammit, John! This was _not_ supposed to happen!" He turned to place a forearm on the floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the lush greenery surrounding the villa and the rocky headland that sloped down to the sea. He laid his forehead on the arm and stared out, seeing nothing. "This was not supposed to happen."

John stood and watched his brother for a moment, then joined him at the window. He put a hand on Scott's back as he said, "I know it wasn't. Just like that avalanche wasn't supposed to happen either. But it did. And there's no going back."

"The avalanche was an act of nature, Johnny. This whole thing... Pete's death... could have been avoided if someone had been on the ball and had done their job right. Or... if I had been allowed to take a hand."

John was astonished at the bitterness in Scott's tone. "I don't understand, Scott. I mean, no one knew that the Minister of Security was really the Hood, did they? Or that he'd recognize Penny, even in disguise. And what do you mean by your last comment?"

"Never mind, John. What's done is done. Like you said, there's no going back," Scott replied. He turned to his brother with a solemn face. "Now I have to have a little talk with Virgil about this pod incident."

"No, Scott. Don't," John said. "I mean, we were p.o.'d at each other and I'm sure he didn't mean..."

Scott cut him off. "Regardless of whether or not he meant it, you could have been injured. And besides, I'm sure I know why he wanted to be the one to greet FAB-1. I can't let him get away with putting his personal feelings ahead of his duties when we're out on a rescue."

"His personal feelings? You know why he wanted me to pilot?" John asked, puzzled.

"Yeah." Scott turned away from the windows and moved toward the door.

John followed, his face a study in confusion. "Well? Aren't you going to tell me?"

Scott paused, considering his answer. _Would Virgil want John to know? He didn't tell him when they were alone on Two, so I suppose he wouldn't. Still, John has a right to an answer. _He turned to face John squarely. "It seems our brother has a 'thing' for Lady Penelope."

The blond blinked a couple of times, then smiled tentatively. "You're kidding, right?"

A solemn shake of Scott's head was his answer. "No, I'm not. He's admitted it to me and I think he's admitted it to Father."

John let out a low whistle. "Boy, I wish I had been a fly on the wall for _that_ conversation!"

"Yeah, well, Dad says that Penelope isn't his girlfriend, so maybe there's still hope for Virgil," Scott said with a derisive snort. "In any case, I need to talk with him about this." The door swished open at the touch of a button. "I'll see you later, John. And... thanks for listening."

"You're welcome," John said as his brother stepped through the door. He added, "Anytime," as the portal swished shut. Turning back to his computer, he tried to process the information that he had just received. _Virgil wants Lady P? I sure didn't see **that** coming._

xxxx

The late afternoon sunlight glinted on the moisture that covered the open bloom, and Virgil hurried to capture the image before either the sun moved too far or he had to spritz the rose with transpirant again. The crimson petals were perfectly parted and the leaves were a deep green, with no damage to their serrated edges. He didn't know why he had been inspired to come to Kyrano's garden that day or why the rose had caught his eye, but it had, and his artistic muse was satisfied with the subject. He didn't know what kind of rose it was, but the color reminded him of Lady Penelope's lipstick... which took his mind to her lips, and her face.

Irritated with himself for straying from his subject, he brought his mind back to the rose... and was surprised when the other subject of his thoughts came softly down the ground pumice path.

"Oh!" she said, surprised to find him in the garden. "I had no idea you were here, Virgil. I shall find another spot. I do not wish to disturb you."

"No, Lady Penelope!" he replied, perhaps a touch too eagerly. He moderated his tone and gave her a winning smile. "Please stay. You're not disturbing me, really."

"If you are certain..."

"I am. Please stay."

She nodded, and went to sit nearby on a redwood bench under a shady trellis that was entwined with fragrant, pink blossoms. He made himself turn back to the rose, only to find that the transpirant had evaporated. With an exasperated huff, he pulled out his sprayer and misted the bloom again.

He worked quietly, feeling her presence behind him and wondering if he could screw his courage up enough to tell her how he felt. The warmth of the day grew, and with it, Virgil's discomfort, both internal and external. He pulled at the collar of the t-shirt he wore under the oversized button down shirt that he used as a painting smock. The more authentic and stereotypical painter's smock and toque that his grandmother had given him had gotten conveniently 'lost' in the depths of his closet at the New York penthouse after only one or two wearings. He had taken it there to keep from having to wear it for any occasion less than a costume party. The old shirt he now wore, one of Scott's cast offs, had taken its place as a painting cover-up.

The quiet grew heavy, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm, until Penelope herself broke the silence. "This is such a peaceful place."

"Yes, it is," Virgil murmured in response. _I almost have it... just a few moments more and this will be finished. _

"I had hoped that coming here would help me sort out my thoughts."

_One more stroke... no, no, not quite there yet..._ "Has it helped?"

"No, I am afraid it has not."

Virgil put one last stroke of green paint on a leaf and knew the painting was finished. The feeling of completeness that he knew so well fell over him and his shoulders, once tense in the emotional frenzy of finishing his work, drooped and relaxed. He turned to Penelope with a smile, and began to clean up his materials.

"Is it finished?" she asked, rising to move closer and view his painting.

"Yes, it is," he replied with conviction. "Now to let it dry." He put his brushes into a small jar of water, and wiped his paint-tinted hands on a damp rag.

"It is lovely. A hybrid tea rose, I think, though I could not tell you which one. I am not as well versed in roses as others in my social circle are. Do you know what it is?"

Virgil shook his head. "No. I was going to ask Kyrano when I was finished."

She glanced at the rose, and then at the painting. "You have certainly captured the heart of the blossom. Do you often paint with watercolors?"

"No more than any other form of painting," he replied, unbuttoning the paint-covered shirt. "Whew! It's getting warm out here. I want to wait until the painting is dry before I head back up to the house." He opened a small cooler at his feet and pulled out a bottle of spring water, offering it to her. She hesitated for a moment, then took it with a murmured, "Thank you." Pulling a second, already opened bottle from the cooler, he guided her over to the bench again and sat down. She joined him on the bench, smoothing her dark slacks as she did, then opening the plastic bottle and taking a tentative sip.

"You were saying that you were having trouble sorting out your thoughts," he began, gazing at her as he spoke.

Penelope would not meet his eyes, but took another sip of water. She sighed, and said, "Yes, I am. Very much so." There was another silence, then she turned to him. "You know, I have done many different things as an agent, not only for International Rescue, but also before your father recruited me. I have broken into houses, stolen, planted surveillance devices, done so much that most people would consider illegal, immoral or both. I have done them with Parker and without him. I have even killed. The Erdman gang, the saboteurs that were after the Zero-X, too many lives I have snuffed either in the name of God and Country or in the cause of International Rescue. But it always has seemed so... remote, so abstract, almost as if I were not the one pulling the trigger. It had always seemed a thrilling, dangerous... game to me." She turned her head away and gazed off into the distance. "And I have never, ever lost someone who was working with me. Never."

Virgil watched as her free hand clenched into a fist as it lay on her thigh. He took a deep breath and said softly, "Until now."

She glanced back at him, assaying a smile and failing, then nodding slowly. "Quite right. Until now." Her face turned down and Virgil could see that she was trying hard to control her emotions. "This... Peter... his death has made me reconsider many things in my life. It has affected me in a way that I would never have expected. For once, I see my occupation as the dirty, dangerous, and deadly serious business that it is. Peter's death has made me question whether or not I should be doing what I am doing. Whether or not even International Rescue is worth the loss of an innocent life."

Virgil took in a sharp breath. "Have you come to a conclusion?" he asked, his eyes on her face, trying to look and seem neutral and sympathetic when, inside, his heart and breath were stopped, waiting for her answer.

"No, not yet." She tried to smile again, and this time managed a small, wan one. "You see, I keep running into something Peter said; in fact, they were his very last words. I have turned them over and over in my mind for hours now and I cannot get past them. I have not told your father about them, even though they were meant for him." She looked down again and sniffled once. "I find I cannot agree with them, but still, if Peter thought this way, how can I discount it?"

"What did he say?"

She raised her head and looked off into space again, her blue eyes unfocused. "He told me to 'tell the boss, t'was worth it'." She shifted her gaze to him again, eyes moist and face solemn. "He knew he was dying, Virgil. He knew, and he wanted your father to know that he felt he did not die in vain." Taking another sip of water, she said, "He wanted your father to know that he considered International Rescue to be worth the sacrifice of his own life." She sighed heavily and remarked, "I do not know if I can agree with him. I do not think I can continue as an agent if it means losing another innocent life or if it means leaving another family without a loved one."

Virgil was stuck. He could not think of anything to say that would sway Penelope into staying. _One thing is clear; this is not the time to tell her how I feel! _He wracked his brains for something, anything to make her sense of loss easier to bear. Finally, he thought he had it. He slid an arm across the back of the bench and turned his body fully toward her. "You know," he began, "when we first started operations, I had nightmares. Nightmares about the rescues we performed and how things might have gone wrong. Nightmares about what I would say to the families of the people whose lives I could not save. I mean, even though Scott is the one who runs interference with the authorities and is the 'face' of IR, and John or Alan could be considered its 'voice', I'm the one who does most of the work. I'm the one who catches the heat if I can't pull off that miracle."

"Then came one day when we didn't save them all. When weather, and time, and circumstances beyond our control cost some lives, lives we had counted on rescuing. We all came home dejected and full of remorse. Even John in Thunderbird Five felt the pain of our failure. That was when my father said something very wise that we've had to remind ourselves of after every rescue."

"What was that?"

"That we were not going to be able to save them all. That we had to focus on those we did save and not those we couldn't. He said that we were just like firefighters, and police, and medical workers the world over, every day. And just as they carried on despite their failures, so should we." He gave a little shrug. "It's a pretty obvious statement, but... sometimes it helps put things in perspective."

"Only sometimes?" she queried, a slight challenge to her voice.

"Yes, only sometimes." He finished his water, then continued, "There are times when you _know _you've screwed up, when you know that a life has been lost because of your own stupidity or lack of skill. That's when it hurts the most. Those are the times I've relied on my family to help me through."

She sat quietly for a moment, digesting what he had said. Then, "I think I understand what you are trying to tell me; that Peter's death was something that I could not foresee or prevent. But that's not quite true, Virgil. It was my actions that started this whole nasty business, my hubris in thinking I should go undetected that set in motion those events that led up to his death." She looked down again. "I think that I no longer have the skills required to continue in this... occupation."

There was a long silence, then Virgil smiled at her reassuringly. "I'm sure that's not true, Lady Penelope. Maybe you need to rethink how you do things, but I don't think you're unqualified. And I doubt Dad does either."

Her cheeks colored, and she glanced down. "Thank you, Virgil, for your kind words. I still have much to think about before I make a decision one way or another."

Daring greatly, he reached out and took her free hand. "I hope you make a decision to stay with International Rescue, Penelope. Things wouldn't be the same without you."

Smiling slightly, she glanced over at him. "You have been such a good friend, listening to me natter on like this. I am certain that even if I decide to end my involvement in International Rescue, I should still remain close to your family."

_Good friend? Is that all? Maybe... maybe it **is** time I told her how I feel. _Virgil squeezed her hand slightly, cleared his suddenly constricted throat, and opened his mouth to speak when the sound of footsteps on the gravel path caught the attention of both people. They looked up in unison to see Scott coming down the path and into view. He stopped stock still as he took in the scene before him: Virgil and Penelope, sitting together under a trellis of roses, Penelope's hand in his brother's.

_Oh, God. What have I walked in on?_ he thought with chagrin. "Sorry to disturb you," he said gruffly. "I need to talk to Virgil, but I can catch him later."

"No, Scott," Penelope said, gently pulling her hand from Virgil's and rising from the bench. "Virgil and I are finished talking. And I should return to the house and see if there are any messages for me from my friend in Unity City." She turned to the painter and said, "Thank you again for listening to me. You have been a great help."

"You're welcome, Penelope," Virgil answered, inwardly cursing his brother's timing. "If you need to talk again, I'll be happy to listen."

"I shall remember that." She started up the path that led out of the garden, stopping at Scott, who stiffly stood aside to let her pass. "I shall let you know when my friend calls, Scott."

"Sure," he said, his voice cool. She looked into his eyes briefly, shook her head slightly, and continued on her way.

In the meantime, Virgil was pulling his brushes from the water and removing his work from the easel. Scott barely gave it a glance as he came down to confront his brother.

"So, what did you need to talk to me about?" Virgil asked, trying to conceal his frustration at Scott's interruption.

"Why did you ask John to pilot Two?" the darker-haired man asked bluntly, his arms crossed over his chest.

Virgil glanced over at his brother, noting the belligerent pose, then turned back to his clean up. "I wanted to be the one to meet FAB-1 when it came into the pod."

"Why?"

The artist continued with what he was doing. "Why do you think? I wanted to make sure she was okay."

"What happened when John refused?"

Virgil sighed. "I gave him three minutes to get back to the pod and then I... I dropped it." He looked at Scott again. "And I'm sorry about that. I was p.o.'d at him and what I did was stupid. Okay?"

Scott's face colored and he put his arms down. Striding over to his brother, he stood close, hands on hips. "No, it's not okay! Dammit, Virgil, you could have hurt him!"

The younger man put up his hands defensively. "I know, I know! And I'm sorry! I'll apologize to him. Just... drop it."

"No. Not until I'm sure that you're not going to let your feelings for that... incompetent blueblooded bitch get in the way of your work!"

No one could miss the thunderous look on Virgil's face, nor could Scott miss the right hook that came flying toward his face. He instinctively blocked the punch, then let fly with one of his own that sent Virgil staggering back, slamming into his easel and sending his painting and supplies flying. The glass jar shattered, and as Virgil reached out to stop his inevitable fall, his hand fell on the shards.

"Damn you, Scott!" he hissed through gritted teeth, glaring at Scott as he cradled his bloody left hand in his right. "What the hell is your problem?"

"What the hell is_ my _problem?" Scott asked as he offered Virgil a hand up. "What's yours? You threw the first punch!"

Virgil ignored Scott's hand, and instead, gingerly pulled the larger shards from his palm. Then he grabbed the paint covered shirt and wrapped that around his hand. He levered himself to his feet by rolling away from the broken jar, getting on his knees and pushing up with his good hand. Once he was facing his brother, who stood stolidly, arms crossed again, he put his good hand up and rubbed along his jaw, moving it to see if it was still functioning properly. He glared at Scott, poked his brother's chest with a finger and growled, "Don't ever talk about her that way." Then he stalked off.

Scott watched him go, shaking his head. He walked down to where Virgil had left his supplies, and picked up the painting. It was spattered with his brother's blood. Scott looked down at his own bandaged hand and sighed. He righted the easel, and began to retrieve the scattered paints and brushes.

xxxx

Dark-haired, fair-skinned Patricia Carter, Interpol investigator, walked along the beach on Señor Alvarez's private cay. She joined up with her local counterpart, Ciprien Badeau, of the Unity City police department as he directed the forensics people who were taking samples of the sand. The floodlights that covered the beach and those that were set up at the helijet pad, illuminated the crime scenes so that the officers could work, even at this early morning hour.

"What do you think a' this, C?" Patricia asked, sweeping her arm to indicate the strip of sand. "The foliage cut down wi' laser or gunfire from the water. The tire tracks in the sand. One helijet blown up and the second helijet missin'. One of Señor Alvarez's men shot through the head on the beach, but two pools of blood found, one a' them hidden. Somethun' doesn't add up to my mind, so it doesn't."

"Trish, I wish I had an answer. It doesn't feel like a terrorist attack, dough, even wit de helijet's destruction," Ciprian said shaking his dark head, the small wooden beads on his braids clacking. He rose from the sand, dusting off his hands. "And I tink dat Señor Alvarez is impatient for us to be done and gone." He indicated the form of Ramirez, who was striding down toward them from the house.

"Detective Carter! When will your people be through here?" he asked candidly as he approached the pair. "His Excellency is eager to get some sleep."

"We'll be done witin de hour," Ciprian replied with just a hint of irritation. "It is not easy to cover such a large crime scene."

"How does this help find that poor Señorita St. Clair?" Ramirez asked, spreading his hands in a gesture of puzzlement. "And what does Interpol think of this... crime scene?"

"Señor Ramirez, I am wi' the Public Safety and Terrorism division a' Interpol," Patricia reminded him. "We are considerin' this to be a terrorist attack, so we are. And we are doin' everythin' we can to locate Ms. St. Clair."

"Then I will leave it in your capable hands," Ramirez said, flashing his white smile. "Buenos noches, señor, señora."

They echoed his words, watched Ramirez go back up the sandy path to the hacienda, then exchanged glances. "Why is it dat I don't tink I can trust dat man as far as I can trow him?" Ciprian asked.

"Because you can't," Patricia replied. Her satellite phone rang. "Carter here. Yes. Really? That's very interestin', so it is. I'll... keep it in mind. Yes. Thank you."

"Who was dat?" Ciprian asked as she folded up her phone and stowed it in a pocket of her light blazer.

"A mate a' mine, based in London," the dark haired woman said.

"I know dat tone of voice. Someting interesting has happened. What is it?"

"The office a' Britain's Prime Minister, Edward Trelawney, stated that Alison St. Clair, whoever she is, is not and never has been an aide or employee at Number 10 Downing Street, so she's not. As far as they are concerned, she doesn't exist!"


	19. Night into Day

_Author's Note: _Moving things along here. My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**fellowriverrat: **Ah, a little sympathy for Lady P. As for what wavelength they're on, time will tell. Thank you for the good words about the confrontation. I went through some angst of my own with that. And thanks for the comments on the accents, but the credit goes mostly to those I asked to help me: Bluegrass for Patricia and Hobbeth for Ciprian.

**Math Girl: **Yes, Penny is going to feel hemmed in, and very soon. Scott doesn't think much of her right now; perhaps he will change his mind... we hope.

**FrankieC: **I didn't think that the stereotypical artist attire made Virgil look manly, and he wouldn't put up for it for long. Thanks for the compliment on the conversation. If nothing else, she and the "idiot child" have a comfortable way of talking to each other.

**Mad-Friend: **Thanks for the compliments on the confrontation. Virgil getting his heart's desire? We'll see what happens there. As for the medium, Penelope asks him if he does much watercolor and that's what he was working with.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

The evening was growing late when a restless John, wearing swim trunks and a t-shirt, found himself by the pool. The water, lit from without and within, rippled and glinted from the motion of its sole occupant, Gordon. John smiled slightly, then pulled his shirt over his head and slipped into the water, not wanting to break his brother's rhythm. He began to swim, not as energetically nor as smoothly as his next youngest brother, but with enough vigor to stretch his muscles and generate a pleasant feeling of actually working them. 

He hit the far wall for the second time and turned, crawling the length of the pool back to the shallow end. As he turned his head to breathe, he caught a glimpse of Gordon sitting on the edge of the pool with his legs dangling in the water. Touching the wall, he stopped, rising from the water and pushing his blond locks back, away from his face. Then he boosted himself to the side of the pool to join his brother.

"So, how was your day?" Gordon asked, without preface.

"Challenging," John replied. "I was trying to translate an email that Aunt Lou got from a friend of hers in Singapore. A late friend, as it turns out. The email was in Mandarin, but there were a few odd characters that didn't translate."

"Is that what you were talking with Brains about over dinner?"

"Yeah. I think we've got it puzzled out. Now I just have to wait for the time zones to align so I can call her and tell her." He paused, giving Gordon's pensive face a good going over. "How was _your_ day?"

"Boring as all hell," the aquanaut replied with a snort. "All I did was stand still and let Tin-Tin measure me, and measure me again, then put pieces of cloth up to me and pin them together. Wish the sewing industry would come up with a better way of fastening cloth together; she stuck me several times."

"So, what did the uniform look like?" John asked, leaning back on his hands.

Gordon shrugged and shook his head. "Beats me. The only thing I know is that the shirt is some kind of shiny, stretchy stuff. Tin-Tin found it was the devil to work with." He chuckled slightly. "I've never heard her cuss before. At least I think it was cussing; it sounded like she was using French, Malay, and a couple of languages I've never heard before."

John laughed. "I would have loved to hear it, if only to tease her about it later. But that explains why she wanted a tray in her room."

"Yeah, she wanted to sew that stuff up while she still had the upper hand." Gordon paused for a moment, then asked, "What was going on at dinner tonight? The atmosphere was so strained you could have used it for baby food."

His brother shook his head. "I didn't pay too much attention, I'm afraid. Got caught up in my discussion with Brains."

"Yeah, so I saw. But... Dad was distracted. Scott was talking in monosyllables, if at all. Virgil had a nice dark purple bruise on his jaw and wasn't talking to Scott. Both of them have bandaged hands. Grandma looked so tired. And where was Lady Penelope? I don't think I've seen her since they came back from the Caribbean."

John blew out a breath slowly. "Don't know what Dad's up to, but a lot of this has to do with Peter Riordan's death. Penelope was there, and I think she's still in shock over it. Scott's really cut up about it, and it's like he's looking for someone to blame. I hear he and Virgil mixed it up in the garden today, possibly about the pod incident..."

"Pod incident?" Gordon asked, puzzled. "What pod incident?"

The blond shook his head impatiently. "Virge and I got angry at each other and he dropped the pod with me in it as his way of expressing his displeasure. I made the mistake of making a distinction during the debriefing, and Scott picked up on it. He asked me about it, and said he was going to 'discuss' it with Virgil."

"Must have been some discussion if Scott gave Virge that bruise," Gordon said dryly. "Not to mention the bandaged hands."

"I'm not sure where those came from; Scott's was already bandaged when he and I talked," John admitted. "But I hope they're able to function tomorrow. Dad wants me to go up and replace Alan for a week or two so Alan can help work on FAB-1. It'll be you, Scott, and Virge left to handle any calls."

"I hope they're talking to each other by then," Gordon said, shaking his head. He frowned, a puzzled look. "Y'know, this fight, if it was one, bothers me. Virge is usually a whole lot more laid back, and he's better at handling Scott when he's in his 'I'm the field commander' mode than any of the rest of us are. I can't see why Scott discussing rescue operations would cause this."

John sat silent for a long moment, staring at the water. Then he turned to Gordon. "It may not have been just about the rescue. Scott told me something today that made my jaw drop."

"What's that?" Gordon's interest was suddenly piqued, and he sat up straighter, leaning toward John. "You can tell me."

The astronaut's face took on an incredulous look. "What? Tell you? I don't think so. You're practically a member of the mass media."

The copper-haired man rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Johnny. It was only that one time..."

"Yeah, and I've never lived it down, either," John retorted.

Gordon linked his fingers together and held them out in front of him, his arms straight. He leaned way over, until he was nearly in John's lap. His head tilted upwards and he blinked his eyelids, trying to flutter his eyelashes. He smiled, and said in his cutest, pleading tone, "Tell me, Johnny, pleeeeeeease? You know you can't wesist your widdle baby brudder."

John closed his eyes and shook his head as if in pain. Then he gave Gordon a shove, putting him back in an upright position. "Okay, I'll tell you, if only to stop this pathetic attempt at wheedling. You're going to make me barf."

Gordon sat up, laughing, then calmed down as he saw the more serious expression on John's face. "What is it, John? C'mon, let loose."

His brother took a deep breath and said quickly, "Virgil wants Lady Penelope." He turned to see Gordon's reaction.

Gordon blinked, then frowned. "This is news?"

John's mouth dropped open. "Wait," he said, matching Gordon's frown. "You knew about this?"

"Well... yeah. Sort of," Gordon said, nodding. "If you'd seen him looking at her after we rescued her in the Anderbad tunnel... talk about a 'come-hither' look! And they had that date at Paradise Peaks, and then went to the Swinging Star that other time..."

"Wait! Wait! Slow down!" John put up his hands to visually stop his brother's account. "When did this all start? Why didn't I know about it? Hell, why didn't_ I _get to go?"

"When? About two, maybe three years ago. Why didn't you know? Well, for the same reason you didn't get to go. You were in Thunderbird Five."

"Damn! I miss too much being up there," John said, shaking his head again. "So, tell me. They had dates at Paradise Peaks, and the Swinging Star... where else? And how in hell did Virgil talk Dad into letting him go?"

"Oh, it wasn't too hard. The dates happened at the end of a rescue or some other caper, and Penelope invited him. They didn't go alone, either. Alan and Tin-Tin were on hand at Paradise Peaks, and Scott was with them at the Swinging Star. And, for the record,_ I _didn't get to go to any of these soirées either. I was stuck at home." He looked off into the night sky for a moment. "I think that Virgil would have taken Penelope out in Paris, too, but she had Sir Jeremy Hodges to entertain. There have been a couple of other times, too. I can't think of where and when at the moment."

"That's it! I'm going to demand some more time doing the town like that," John said, smacking one fist into the palm of the other hand. "Maybe I can find someplace nice to take Brigitte."

"Brigitte?" Gordon asked, one eyebrow climbing and his voice again betraying his piqued interest.

"Uh, yeah. Brigitte. One of our agents. A firefighter from Unity City," John stammered, feeling a flush color his cheeks.

"Pretty?" Gordon asked.

"Yeah. Pretty. Even in camo," John admitted. He nudged his brother. "Hey, it's not like I expect it to be serious or anything, but..." He shrugged. "You never know."

"Man, I've got to get out more, too," Gordon said, shaking his head. "Though, I did get a kiss from that tiger's trainer... what was her name?" He snapped his fingers. "Yeah, Margot. Not a bad looker, either."

"Yeah, but do you really want to get involved with a woman who keeps a 200 kilo cat for a house pet?"

Gordon looked up as if considering. "You have a point. With a woman like that, there might be control issues..."

The two men laughed. "I'm for some more laps," John said. "You?"

"Sure. Got to get really tired out so I can get a good night sleep... and maybe have a nice dream or two."

With that, they slipped back into the water, and started swimming side by side down the length of the pool.

xxxx

"Jeff?"

Jeff turned at the soft voice that called from the far end of the lounge. He smiled. "Penelope. What a nice surprise."

Penelope stepped down carefully into the room from the study. "I came to ask what arrangements have been made for FAB-1."

He put down the data pad he had been poring over, and motioned her to Thunderbird Three's couch, then joined her there. "Brains has requested that we bring Alan down, and possibly fetch Kenny Malone from the States to help. He's got a lot on his plate, and feels that Alan would do a better job with the Rolls than he could, with his current workload."

"Ah. I understand." She turned her body to face him, her hands in her lap. "I have not yet heard back from my friend in Unity City, but I feel she shall be able to help Melissa Riordan return Peter to Ireland without trouble."

"Good to hear," Jeff said gently. "I've had one of our agents checking into dealing the family's debt. We'll pay off the bills anonymously to free her of financial obligation. Then I'll be setting up a stipend each month for her, paid directly to her bank account."

"How will you explain the funds to her?" Penelope asked.

"I'm not sure," Jeff said, scratching the back of his neck. "If you have any ideas, I'd be glad to hear them. I'd rather not tell her about Peter's activities in International Rescue if I can help it." He shook his head slowly. "These are things we haven't had to deal with before, and they're proving to be more of a tangled mess than I anticipated."

"I know you will find a way, Jeff. You always do."

The two of them sat quietly for a few moments, then Jeff said, "I'd like you to look over something for me, Penelope." He got up and retrieved the data pad, handing it to her as he sat back down. "It's a letter to our agents, explaining about Peter. And... giving them a chance to step out, if they want to."

Penelope glanced up at him, a small frown creasing her face as she did. Then she applied herself to reading the letter. When she was finished, she handed it back. "It is very well stated. Clear and concise. But... do you think it wise to send it?"

Jeff let out a deep breath. "Yes, I think so." He glanced at her with a wry expression. "Scott was all for disbanding the agents' network entirely. But it has been helpful to us over the years. And I can't see dismantling something that's worked for us because of... because of an unexpected fatality." He looked down at the data pad. "Still, there are those who, on hearing this, might reconsider what we've asked them to do. I want to give them the opportunity to choose whether to stay or go."

"And if they go? What then?"

"Then, the equipment they have in their homes will be deactivated, and the stipend I pay them will stop or perhaps be reduced. I'm not sure which. I hate the idea of buying someone's silence, but I hope it doesn't come to that. I'd like to think that the people we've chosen are at least loyal enough not to give us away to the world."

"And for those who stay? What of them? You mention a restructuring?"

Jeff nodded. "Yes. A codifying of who can do what. Looking at the individual strengths and weaknesses of each agent, then deciding who we can call on in certain instances. For example, if we needed a physician, we might call on Agent 112, that Dr. Solokov who was with you. If we needed someone handy with a gun, perhaps my old friend, Jeremiah, would be chosen." He smiled at Penelope. "He could always bring along some of Maud's beans..."

His sally brought forth a small smile from Penelope, as he hoped it would. But it was a smile that too soon faded, and she turned her head to gaze out the windows at the darkness beyond. "What's wrong, Penny?" he asked gently.

It took a long moment for Penelope to steel herself to the subject. "I... I have a message for you." She turned to Jeff with a solemn face. "It is from Peter. They were his last words."

Jeff was taken aback and just stared at her. She avoided his gaze, looking down at her now-folded hands. At last, he let out a pent-up breath and said, his voice rough, "Please tell me."

Penelope glanced up again, staring straight ahead, her eyes moist. "He was dying. Victor had told him so. He looked up at me and gave me messages for his children, for Scott, and for Melissa. Then he told me," here she drew in a deep breath, " 'Tell the boss, 'twas worth it'." She swallowed and continued. "He wanted you to know that he did not think he died in vain. That he considered your dream important enough to sacrifice his life."

There was another long silence between them, then Jeff swallowed heavily and said, "Thank you, Penny. Thank you for giving me his message."

"You are welcome," came the automatic response. Another, shorter spell of quiet, then Penelope rose, and Jeff rose with her. "I... must sleep now, if I can." She met Jeff's eyes. "Am I included in your letter to the agents?"

Jeff nodded. "Yes."

"Good." Putting a hand up beside his face, she reached up with her lips to kiss him on the opposite cheek. "Thank you for giving me a choice." She brought her hand slowly down his jawline and gave him a half-hearted smile. "Goodnight, Jeff."

"Goodnight, Penny," he said as she turned. He watched her leave the room, rooted to the spot by her words and their implications. When she had made her way through the study, and the door had hissed shut behind her, he sagged. Going to the cabinets and drawers behind his desk, he pulled out a bottle of Scotch, and a single glass tumbler, one of four in the drawer. _I see Kyrano has already replaced the one Scott broke. I don't know what we'd do without him to keep this place together._

He poured himself two fingers worth, and lowered most of the overhead lights, leaving only the ones over his desk at their full brightness. Then he made his way over to the windows that opened onto the balcony. The moon was a crescent, high in the sky, and he saluted her before he took his first taste. From where he stood he could just make out part of Thunderbird Two's runway, a dark strip of asphalt on the white beach, the palm trees showing as dark masses that flanked it in two straight rows like an honor guard. He sipped his drink, feeling the whiskey roll down his throat with each swallow. _I wonder what Penelope meant about having a choice? Could she be considering leaving IR? Has her confidence been shaken that badly? I hope not; we need her._

He put his free hand in his trouser pocket as he stood there. _Peter's last words were a shock. I've always known that, at any time, any of my sons might make the ultimate sacrifice for my dream. It's been the fear that's haunted me ever since we started this. And we've had so many close calls. But... to think that one of my **agents** found in my dream something worth dying for... it's humbling. I never would have expected it. Just as I never really expected one of them to die in the line of duty._

A slight rustle behind him told him that he was not alone. He watched in the window as the reflection of a figure came up beside his own. "Yes, Scott?"

Scott stood with his arms folded over his chest, not looking Jeff in the face, but gazing out the window as his father was doing. "I came to tell you that I'm going to Peter's wake and funeral."

_Not, "I want to go" or "May I go". Just "I'm going",_ Jeff thought. He said, "Let me know when it is so I can have Alan take Thunderbird One."

Scott was surprised. He was all set to argue with his father over the matter. To hear him give permission without a fight took some of the belligerence out of his pose, and he lowered his arms, sticking his hands in the pockets of his shorts.

"Also, I... uh... want to help Melissa out..."

"That won't be necessary. I've got the finances covered."

Scott's bandaged hand clenched into a fist, hidden from Jeff by the pocket. "I'm not talking financially. I'm talking about on a... personal level."

Jeff now looked over at his son. "How so?"

"Well, those kids of hers will need a father figure in their lives, an 'honorary uncle' of sorts. I want to be that for them. So, when you need to send me to one of the corporate offices, I'd like it to be close to wherever she ends up, whether it's Unity City or Dublin."

"Have you discussed this with Melissa?"

"No. I haven't had a chance to. And I think I should wait a couple of weeks before I do. Let things... settle a bit."

The older man nodded, then turned back to the window, downing the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, grimacing. "Come back to me once you've spoken to her and we'll discuss it then."

"Yes, sir."

Scott turned to go, and Jeff spoke up. "Scott, did you give Virgil that bruise?"

The son turned back and with a touch of defiance in his tone, said, "Yes, sir. I did."

"Why?"

"He was offended by something I said, and took a swing at me."

Jeff didn't expect this answer. "What did you say? Virgil wouldn't take a poke at you without cause."

Scott huffed out a breath. "It's not something I'm going to repeat."

There was silence between the men. Then Jeff sighed. "Well, whatever it was, make it right between you."

Scott came back to his father and stood before him, arms folded over his chest again. "Why? So it doesn't interfere with operations?"

"No, Scott," Jeff cut in sharply. "Make it right between you because one, he's your brother, and two, your grandmother doesn't need this stress. Haven't you seen how tired she is? She's still feeling the effects of being sick."

This brought Scott up short. He put his hands in his pockets and looked down, sudden regret causing his cheeks to color. "I'm... I'm sorry for jumping to a conclusion. I'll talk to Virgil." _For her sake._

"Good." Jeff nodded once and went back to his desk, taking up the whiskey and pouring himself another dram. He stopped the glass on the way to his lips, then turned to Scott. "I think you should take Parker with you. To the wake and funeral."

"Why?" Scott challenged.

"The story Penelope gave is that Peter and Parker were good friends. It would look odd if such a good friend didn't pay his respects."

Scott stood still, letting the idea roll around in his mind for a few moments. Then he replied, "All right. I'll take him."

"And I'll speak to him about it." Jeff now took a sip of his freshened drink. He picked up the data pad, and held it out to his son. "You might as well see this."

The younger man approached and took the pad. He read through it quickly, glancing up at Jeff and handing it back when he was finished. "Too little, too late, don't you think?"

Jeff tossed the pad back on his desk, and took a larger gulp of his whiskey. He made a face and an involuntary "Ahhh" escaped his lips. He met Scott's eyes. "I'm not dismantling the network. It has been useful in more ways than one. But I do see the need for some adjustments so that hopefully this doesn't happen again."

" 'Hopefully'," Scott echoed. He gave a bitter little laugh. "Y'know, somehow, I'm not comforted by that, Dad." Turning, he sauntered across the room toward the study. As he reached the steps, he glanced over his shoulder. "I'll talk to Virgil. And I'll let you know when I'm ready to go." Then he was gone.

Alone again, Jeff let out a deep sigh, and polished off his drink.

xxxx

The morning sun pushed its way through the blinds in Cindy Lou's bedroom, causing her to roll away from the window, unconsciously snuggling down into her pillow with a barely audible sigh of contentment. Her comfort was short-lived, however, as from outside her door came the loud hissing and snarling of a cat fight. The noise brought her upright in bed, with a startled, "Wha...?"

The sounds continued, and Cindy Lou, cussing under her breath, climbed out of bed, throwing a satiny, pale blue, embroidered robe, on over her matching pajamas. She unlocked her door, and threw it open. There in the carpeted hallway, Midnight and Spot were facing off, both with hackles raised. The two swatted at each other, neither making contact, both hissing loudly. Snowball and Moofums were on hand, too, watching the spat until Cindy Lou opened the door. Then their attention turned to their mistress, and they began to rub themselves against her legs, trying to butter her up. Midnight and Spot, however, continued with their argument.

"Midnight!" she shouted, reaching out to grab the black male. "Yoah a pest, yew know thet?" Tucking him under her arm, she stomped downstairs, barefoot, her robe dragging from step to step behind her. She dropped the cat in the middle of the kitchen floor, where he was joined by the females, Spot still hissing at him if he got near. She glanced back at them as she opened the cupboard door, shaking her head, her hand reaching in for a can of cat food. When it failed to make contact with one, she turned to view the empty spot on the shelf, and groaned.

"Damn," she muttered under her breath. "Ah need t' go shoppin'."

Opening another cupboard, she pulled out a can of tuna in water, and opened it. The cats got a whiff of the familiar, fishy odor and crowded around, Moofums even getting so bold as to jump up on the counter. Cindy Lou pushed her off, and took out a fork.

"Now, don't y'all get used t' this, y'hear?" she warned the cats as she portioned out the fish. "Ah'll be goin' shoppin' t'day t' get yew what yew really need."

The cats were munching away contentedly when the vidphone in her kitchen rang. Looking at the clock, she sighed heavily, raising a hand to her hair. "Great. Ah haven' had a chance t' showah yet. Well, whoevah it is is gonna have t' put up with no picture." She activated the phone and, not hiding her frustration, said, "Cindy Lou Kellay heah. Who is callin'?"

There was a pause on the other end, and then a familiar voice sounded out hesitantly. "Uh... Aunt Lou?"

"John. What th' hell ah yew doin' callin' me at this ungodly owah?" she asked bluntly.

"Is that you, Aunt Lou?" he asked again.

"Yes, John, it's me," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Uh, how come you've got the phone on voice only?"

" 'Cause, John Tracy, it's seven o'clock in th' mornin' heah an' Ah haven't had tahme t' get a showah," she explained with exaggerated patience.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I thought it would be a good time to call. I'll call back later," he replied, his words coming out in a rush.

Her shoulders sagged as "No, no, John. _Ah'm_ sorry. It's just... Ah look lahke Medusa when Ah first get up, that's all. What did yew need, hun?"

"Me? Nothing. I've got something for you. Dad handed me that email you sent, and..."

Cindy Lou cut in. "Wait jes' a second, John. Lemme take this in mah office, okay? Gonna put yew on hold." She did it before he could either protest or acknowledge the act, then she scooted off quickly to her office, closing the door behind her. A movement of her mouse brought her computer to life, and she picked up the phone in that room, still keeping it on "voice only". "Okay, John, Ah'm in mah office an' Ah've got th' email befoah me. Now, tell me whatchu got."

"Well, I can read it to you in more colloquial English, but I think you're probably more interested in those odd characters, aren't you?"

"Yes, Ah am. Yew can send on th' rest of th' translation latuh."

"Okay. Those characters were set apart because they don't make a word in Mandarin or in any other language that uses Hanyu Pinyin. Instead, they are merely the sounds that would be strung together to make a word. The sounds are 'deh', 'ruh', and 'eh'. Together, they would sound like 'druh'. And, I noticed that the characters are actually connected to the word that follows: the word 'man'."

Cindy Lou frowned. "Druh-man? Drummond?"

"No!" John said excitedly. "I talked this over with Brains last night, and he came up with an inspired idea. Instead of having the sounds read left to right as Hanyu Pinyin usually is, the sounds would read right to left, as traditional Chinese characters would be. So instead of 'druh', you get..."

" 'Ur-d' and 'man'... Erdman! Th' Erdman gang!" Cindy Lou pushed herself back into her chair with a huff of breath. "Tony, yew definitely ran afoul of th' wrong fellas."

"From your response, I'd guess that the Erdman gang wasn't completely eliminated," John commented, a wry tone to his voice.

"Eliminated? What d'yew mean, John?"

"Well, you remember an incident from a few years back? Where a man named Prescott was trapped in the basement of a burning building and IR had to rescue him?"

She was quiet for a moment. "Yeah, Ah remembah. Th' Erdman gang was behind it an' the British Security Service got involved. Ah recall hearin' they sent in a man t' infiltrate th' gang."

"Right. They were trying to blow up a plutonium storage facility. But the agent's cover was blown, and he was left in the main storeroom in the clutches of a guard robot. We got called in to rescue him and take out the explosive devices. We called in Lady Penelope, who went after the other two crooks and caught up with them just as they got aboard their leader's helijet. She... uh... used FAB-1's guns to blow it out of the sky. Everyone aboard was killed."

"And?"

"And that was the end of the Erdman gang. Or so we thought."

Cindy Lou sighed and smiled, even though John couldn't see it. "Oh, hun, that was_ not _th' end of th' Erdman gang. They were disorganized an' went underground foah a tahme aftah that, but they came back an' ah still out theyah. Jus' pickin' different targets, that's all. Believe me, Ah know. Intuhpol's been tryin' t' shut them down foah a good long tahme. They'll work foah whoevah will pay what they ask." She paused. "That incident _did _keep them from becomin' a major terrorist organization, though. But it looks lahke theyah workin' foah Gaat rahte now."

"So, what's the next step?"

"Yew leave that up t' me, John. Ah got mah friends workin' on a little suhprize foah th' Erdman gang an' the websahte they run. But thank yew foah th' translation, hun. Give mah thanks t' Brains, too, y'hear?"

"You're welcome, Aunt Lou. I wish Dad had warned me about that accent, though. I thought I had the wrong number at first."

"Believe me, John, if yew'd seen me, yew would've been shoah of it." They chuckled together then she added, "It's aftuh midnight out theyah an' I don't want t' keep yew from yoah bed."

"Okay, Aunt Lou. Talk to you later. Have a good day."

"Latuh, John. An' goodnight."

They disconnected the call, and Cindy Lou sat up, resting her elbow on her desk and her chin in her hand._ Now all I need is to get that altered program from Dee and hopefully, I can put a crimp in the Erdman gang's game for a bit. And while that's happening, figure out a way to take down Gaat. Just can't let him keep the power he's stolen; he's far too dangerous. _She gnawed lightly on a thumbnail. _Should I pass this email on to Donovan? It might be nice to implicate the gang in Tony's murder. I'll have to think about it. But first things first._

She stretched and yawned, then padded upstairs, back to her bedroom and bath to get another, fresher start to the day.

xxxx

The doorbell rang at the bed and breakfast and one of the owners hurried to answer it. He first looked out the window beside the wide double door to see who might be calling at this frenzied time of day. The man on the porch was tall and well-built, with dark hair, wearing equally dark glasses. He reached down to pet one of the inn's dogs who came up to smell him. _This is a bad time, but I'd better see what he wants, _the proprietor thought. He opened the door enough to step outside. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, maybe you can." The man smiled, his white teeth gleaming in his well-tanned skin. He gestured over across the street. "I'm looking for an old friend of mine: Lucinda Myles. This is the most recent address I have, but she seems to have moved. Tell me, did she leave behind any contact information? I really need to get in touch with her."

The innkeeper gazed at the man steadily, then shook his head. "No, Ms. Myles didn't leave any forwarding address. At least, not with us. She may have with the post office."

"An email address, a phone number? Anything?" the stranger queried in his odd voice.

The proprietor shook his head slowly. "No, nothing. I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

The stranger was poised to ask another question, but the door opened behind the innkeeper, and his partner peered out. "Everything okay out here?"

"Oh, yeah, just fine," the manager said. "I was just telling this gentleman that Ms. Myles didn't leave behind any way for us to contact her. Again, I'm sorry, sir. But I can't help you."

The stranger smiled again. "That's okay. Thanks for your time."

"You're welcome."

The dark-haired man left the inn, walking quickly over to the plush sedan he was driving. He gave a little wave as he climbed inside, then pulled carefully out of the driveway. The innkeepers both watched him go, then the man outside came back inside.

"Who was that?" the partner wanted to know.

"I think it was that guy Luci asked us to keep an eye out for."

"Wasn't that guy supposed to be blond?" the partner asked.

"Yeah," the first man said as they walked back to the kitchen. People were already sitting at the small tables in the common area, chatting. "But Luci said something about him having a weird voice. And that guy's voice fit the bill! I think I'd better drop her an email."

"Yeah, sure, go ahead. But not right now," his partner hissed. "We've got breakfast to serve."

The man who answered the door nodded, and the two innkeepers began to serve up the gourmet breakfast that they had been preparing. And in the rush to feed the guests, the incident on the porch slipped the mind of the one who had spoken to the stranger, until much, much later.


	20. Time Zones

_Author's Note: _Vignettes establishing where most of our players are. My thanks to Bluegrass for Patricia's Ulster accent and to Hobbeth for betareading. _Note_: had to make an adjustment in the last section because I actually looked at a map in preparation for future chapters. I've reloaded the chapter with the corrections.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Math Girl: **Melissa and Scott? Only time will tell on that front. John's linguistic capabilities are actually from the authorized materials, where it is noted that he studies new languages during quiet times on Thunderbird Five. Thank you for your good words on Jeff's portrayal. And will Lou stay a step ahead of her stalker? Again, only time will tell.

**fellowriverrat: **Thanks for the compliments on John's role. There are layers to the man that are only hinted at in the show and in the authorized stuff. That little exchange between Jeff and Penny? Meant more to Penny than it did to Jeff, obviously, as he didn't even react. Scott isn't so anxious to make amends, especially when he feels he's right. However, when he knows he's stepped over the line... you'll see in this chapter. Lou has no idea what is coming her way, I'm afraid. More in later chapters.

**FrankieC: **Of course I had to bring up Anderbad! That sulty look, the hand on her face! Couldn't pass it up. Thanks for the good words on the Gordon/John banter, it was fun to write those two together. And thanks for the compliment on Jeff's reaction to Scott. Those two may be butting heads for some time to come.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

Late morning in the capital city, and already the Honorable Addison Kennicot had fielded thirteen phone calls, in addition to attending an online conference consisting of herself, Britain's other senator, and a delegation from the United States. She was waiting for a call back from Ireland's senior senator about their chat from the evening before, as well as one from the Irish ambassador, for whom she had left a message. So she could be forgiven if she was not best pleased to hear that representatives from both Interpol and the local constabulary were sitting in her anteroom, requesting an audience. 

She took a moment to brush back her hair and finish the rapidly cooling cup of tea she had sitting on her desk. Moving the delicate cup and saucer over to join the matching teapot on the small side table, she returned to her desk, took a deep breath and activated the intercom. "Send the detectives in, Anne."

"Very good, madame."

The door opened and two strikingly different people walked through. Ciprian Badeau was massive, a huge, dark-skinned man with hair done in rows of tight, jawline length braids that clung close to his scalp and were decorated with dark wooden beads at the ends. Patricia Carter was slender, but as tall as Addison herself, with dark hair cut short and layered back away from her pale face. Addison rose, and shook hands with each, introducing herself, then looking carefully at the identification that each of the detectives offered before handing it back. "Won't you please sit down?"

The detectives did so, and after a moment of settling in, Patricia pulled out a PDA. "We're here to ask ya some questions about a caller ya had on March 16, a Ms. Alison St. Clair. Do ya remember the woman?"

"Why, yes, I do," Addison said, suddenly alert. "She came asking my help for setting up a visit by Mr. Trelawney, the prime minister. I understand she is missing. Have you found her?"

"No, Madame Senator, we have not," Ciprian replied, pulling out his own data recorder. "We are trying to trace her motions of dat day."

"What do ya know about her? What did she look like? How did she dress?" Patricia asked, stylus poised.

Addison sat back for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts. In reality, she was trying to come up with a way to deflect suspicion away from Penelope. Glancing back at Patricia, she said, "She was really quite pretty, with long black hair and blue eyes. She dressed conservatively, but well. Linen suit in a medium blue with knee-length hem, matching shoes with a low heel, simple gold necklace and studs, nothing to set her apart from any of the other professional women who work here."

"Like, I mean, was her clothes dear or just off the peg?" Patricia pressed.

"Hmm. It did rather resemble a Wickfen design I have seen," Addison replied, looking thoughtful. Then she smiled. "But you know how it is. Sometimes the imitations look more authentic than the actual designer frocks."

"Hmph," Patricia grunted. Addison simply smiled sweetly while thinking, _It is not as if you **wouldn't** know, Detective. Not on your salary!_

Patricia, on the other hand, took the senator's sweet smile another way._ I didn't come up the Lagan in a bubble ya know, ya snotty cow._

"What did she say she was to do while here in Unity City?" Ciprian asked.

"She said she was an aide to Mr. Trelawny and she was charged to made arrangements for an official visit from the prime minister in six months' time."

"Six monts?" The dark-skinned man gave Addison a piercing look.

"Six months was the time frame she mentioned, but she did say it could be later than that."

"Ah, I see. Did her credentials seem to be in order?"

Addison nodded. "Oh yes. Everything was quite in order."

"How did you verify her identity?"

"I phoned Number 10 before she arrived. They confirmed her_ bona fides_."

The detectives exchanged puzzled frowns. Then Patricia asked, "So, how exactly did ya help her out then?"

"I had my secretary phone various departments to smooth the way so she could carry out her assignment. I received calls later to confirm her identity, so I know she visited the offices she said she was to contact."

Ciprian nodded and added the information to his PDA. The intercom on Addison's desk chimed for attention and she leaned over to answer it with a soft, "Excuse me." Once the connection was made, she asked, "Yes, Anne?"

"Ambassador Conley is on line one, madame."

"Ah! Thank you, Anne." Addison's eyes went from one detective to another. "If you would please excuse me, detectives. I have been waiting for this call from the Irish ambassador."

Ciprian glanced at his partner and she nodded. "I tink we have enough for now," he said. "Tank you, Madame Senator, for your time. If we have any otter questions, may we call?"

"Of course. Anything to help you find the poor girl." The three of them rose, and Addison walked her visitors to the door. "Good day, detectives," she said. They returned the farewell, and left the anteroom, comparing notes as they did so. Addison indicated to her secretary that she should transfer the call, then strode quickly back to her desk. As the white-haired visage of Ireland's ambassador to Unity City filled her vidscreen, she made a quick note to herself to tell Penelope about these recent events when she phoned.

As they walked to the parking garage and Ciprian's official vehicle, Patricia asked, "So, who do we believe? His Excellency and Madame Senator back there?" She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. "Or Number 10 Downing Street?"

"I don't know, Trish," Ciprian said, shaking his head slowly, making the beads on his braids clack softly. "De papers dat His Excellency showed us seemed autentic enough. And it will be simple enough to check de senator's phone records. I guess we wait to see what forensics has for us."

"I think you're right, so ya are," Patricia agreed. "I'd better get back to my wee office and you get back to yours." She smiled up at him. "Normally our agencies aren't this cooperative, so they're not."

Ciprian smiled back as they reached their vehicle. "Dis is true. But we work well togetter, you and I. Togetter, we can get to de bottom of de mysterious disappearance of Ms. Alison St. Clair."

xxxx

The wee hours of the morning, the following day (thanks to the IDL) and Brains caught his eyes closing for the fifth time in as many minutes. He shook his head sharply, and yawned. Looking up, he sighed as he saw his scheduling board. _So many projects, and all of them a top priority. Most of them wanted yesterday. And no matter how often I rearrange them, something essential is still being put off. Or, something equally essential is added to my plate. _

He yawned again and turned off the soldering iron he had been using. _I need some sleep. Maybe later I can pry Tin-Tin away from the uniform design and get her to help me on the specs that Deirdre sent me. Somehow, I think that the ability to get on and off the Internet without leaving a trail is very important to us right now. I've also got to put a bug in Mr. Tracy's ear again about bringing Deirdre on as a technical consultant._

Making a tour around the lab to make sure everything that should be shut down was shut down, he turned off the lights, locked the doors, and padded out, summoning the monorail car that would connect him with the elevators to the house. Hands in his pockets, he leaned against the rail of the steps that brought him up to the monorail's platform. He blinked once, then twice, and took off his glasses to wipe them on his lab coat, then rubbed his eyes before replacing the lenses on his face. The monorail was descending the grade, following the path made by lava disgorged from the island's volcano thousands of years ago, a path smoothed and enlarged by the hard work of the Tracys. As the car got closer, Brains found it to be occupied. A pajama'd and dressing gowned Parker was sitting in the car, yawning, setting off another jaw-cracking yawn in Brains. The little red tram stopped at the lab, and Parker, surprised by the fact that there was someone waiting there, hesitated to get out. Instead, he slid open the door and, with a slightly slurred but cheery voice, said, "Goo' mornin', Mr. Brains."

"What's so g-good about it?" Brains asked, a touch of humor in his voice. He entered the car, and leaned up against a wall, yawning again.

Parker was stymied by the question for a moment. "Well, guv, Ay s'pose h'enny mornin' yer alive h'is a good 'un, don' ye agree?" He yawned again.

Brains nodded, and returned the yawn. "I a-agree, uh, Parker. What b-brings you down to the, uh, bowels of the c-complex?"

"Ay don' think tha' callin' this th' 'vowels'..." His mouth yawned open of its own accord. "... h'is h'a good h'idear, Mr. Brains," Parker answered, a slight frown on his face. " 'Tis h'a mayte... h'in-del-ee-cat, 'tis."

"You, uh, haven't answered my qu-question," Brains reminded him, stifling another yawn.

Parker blinked, then nodded. "Yer rayte, Ay 'aven't. Well, Mr. Brains, Ay came down t' see may gehl. May poor brave gehl. She did h'a fayne work th'other nayte h'an' no mistake."

"Well, uh, P-Parker, I'm afraid the lab is, uh, locked up n-now," Brains said kindly, moving over to the controls that would take them back up the grade and to the elevators. Just the thought of getting to bed made him yawn again, this one wide enough to squeeze his eyes totally shut.

The older man gave the engineer a strange look. "That don' make h'enny d'ffrence."

So tired was Brains that it took a full minute for the implications of Parker's statement to sink in. "Uh, I s-suppose it doesn't. Not for you. But, uh, why d-don't you wait until, uh, Alan r-returns from Thunderbird Five later today. Then you can d-discuss your, uh, 'girl's' condition with him." He paused as a monstrous yawn suddenly overtook him. "Besides, I'd, uh, rather you s-stay out of the lab right n-now. There are, uh, experiments going on."

"Ah!" Parker said sagely, nodding again. "Ay see. Ay b'leeve ye 'ave h'a good h'idear there, Mr. Brains. Not good t' disturb th' h'ex-peer-ee-ments."

"Right." Brains turned to the controls. "I'm, uh, taking 'er... her... back to the, uh, elevators, o-okay?"

"Takin' 'oo?" the Cockney asked suspiciously. "May gehl?"

Sighing slightly, the genius looked back at the chauffeur. "Uh, no. The monorail car. Are you r-ready?"

"Oh! Yus. Go h'ahead, Mr. Brains." The older man yawned prodigiously again and Brains fought the urge to imitate him. Fought... and lost. His mouth opened with an audible noise.

"Ye soun' layke yer h'ex-haw-sted," Parker commented as the monorail took them back up the incline and headed for the curve at the power plant.

"I am," Brains admitted. "I've got a lot of, uh, priority p-projects to work on. That's why I asked for Alan, so he could, uh, take FAB-1. B-Besides, Alan's much better with c-cars."

"Ah," the chauffeur replied. "Then h'it looks like Milady an' Ay will be stayin' fer h'a whayle yet. Ay don' know that 'er Ladyship will want t' return t' Foxleyheath wi'out th' Rolls." He sighed heavily. "Ay h'am worried h'about Milady. She seems so sad. Ay'm h'afraid she mayte do 'erself some 'arm."

The little car jolted a bit as it went around the curve near the huge block of a building that housed the nuclear-based power generators. Brains glanced back at Parker just as they entered the well-lit tunnel that would eventually take them past Thunderbird One's launch pad. "Wh-Why do you say that?"

"Well," Parker began, propping his chin on his hand, "Ay've never seen 'er this way. She's taken that lad Peter's death verra 'ard. Naow, h'if 'twere me 'oo died, Ay could see h'it. But she barely knew th' man! She's seen dead folk h'afore. Killed some, too."

Brains sighed. His knowledge of psychology was better than most people's, but was still limited. "P-Perhaps this is the first time it's been, uh, up close and p-personal, so to speak." He turned back to the controls, slowing the car as it reached the terminus with the elevators to the villa. "I wouldn't, uh, worry about Lady P-Penelope hurting herself. She's a very strong, uh, p-personality. It will just take time to, uh, g-get over this."

Parker yawned again, then muttered, "Ay 'ope yer rayte, Mr. Brains. Ay 'ope yer rayte."

xxxx

Dawn on Tracy Island found a satellite phone ringing over and over in one of the bedrooms. The woman in the bed sleepily waved a white arm and mumbled, "Parker... the telephone." But the device continued to ring, and finally Penelope picked her head off the pillow, squinting toward the dresser where she had laid the thing. "This had better be an emergency," she muttered as she got out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. Padding over to the dresser, she picked up the offending item, and flipped it open as she returned to the bed to sit down on the edge, pushing the "voice only" button before pressing the pink "answer" bar. "Hello, this is Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward speaking. Who is calling?" she said, her voice betraying just a hint of her internal irritation.

"Penny? It's Addison. Did I wake you?"

Penelope sighed, relaxing, her voice losing that irritated tone. "I am afraid you have, Addi."

Addison's voice held real regret. "I am so sorry, Penny. I shall call again later."

"No, no, Addi." Penelope waved a dismissive hand, forgetting momentarily that her friend couldn't see her. "It is quite all right. What news?"

"Good news," Addison replied. "The Irish Ambassador has agreed to put his diplomatic seal on Mr. Riordan's coffin, and I shall add my own. That should keep the remains from being disturbed by either Irish or British authorities. I have also been in contact with the Customs officials on this end. They have agreed to scan the coffin and to send the results of that scan ahead of the flight, so there should be no trouble with the Customs office at the family's final destination."

"Oh, Addi! Thank you! This is above all I could have asked. I am so very grateful for your help in this matter. I shall phone Mrs. Riordan straightaway and tell her of the arrangements."

"Please do, Penny, and have her call either my office or the embassy. Ambassador Conley's or my own secretary should be able to arrange the details."

"I shall, Addi. Again, thank you ever so much!"

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, and then Addi, her voice growing serious, remarked, "I had a visit from two detectives today, Penny. One from our local police and one from Interpol, working together. They were looking for clues to the whereabouts of that young lady I mentioned, Alison St. Clair. They seemed very interested in what she looked like and what she wanted from me. And when I told them how I had verified her identity, they seemed a bit... surprised."

Penelope willed her voice to a casual tone, "Oh? That is very interesting, Addi. Very interesting indeed. If I should see Ms. St. Clair, I shall be certain to tell her that she is being sought so diligently."

"Please do, Penny. I do not know what clues they might have to her whereabouts, but I am certain that these two detectives will be very, very thorough in their investigation."

"It is_ so _nice to know that the minions of the law take their job so very seriously," Penelope declared. She yawned slightly, turning her head and covering her mouth so that her friend could not hear it. "I should be going, Addi. I must ring Melissa Riordan and tell her the good news."

"Of course, Penny, I understand." There was another pause, then Addison spoke once more. "Penny, I should dearly love to hear from you again, purely for a social call. Or perhaps we could see each other the next time you visit Unity City? I would so like to catch up with you and your life."

Penelope smiled at this. "I should like that, too, Addi. I have lost touch with so many friends from school. We all went our separate ways, it seems. I shall call again, and soon. And I promise to visit when next I am in Unity City."

"I look forward to it. Goodbye for now, Penny."

"Goodbye, Addi."

The connection closed and Penelope put the phone down beside her. The longing and loneliness in Addison's tone had cut her to the quick._ How many old friends have I lost track of in my desire to remain a cipher? How many people are there in this world whom I consider to be close friends? Too few, I fear. This life to which I have given myself has removed much of what used to make me happy. Now my "friends" are only those who can provide me with intelligence, or can arrange things for me that I cannot do for myself. Such as the favor I have asked of Addi. _She shook her head slowly. _The only ones I feel close to are Sir Jeremy, and perhaps Deborah, and of course, the Tracys. Especially Jeff. Oh, and let's **not** forget Parker, old girl. _She looked down at the phone next to her and smiled slightly. Picking it up, she held it in both hands. _Perhaps it is time to change all that. But right now, a bath before I phone Melissa. No sense frightening the poor girl. And after Melissa, a little chat with Edward._

xxxx

Early afternoon in South Carolina found Deirdre Macias almost ready to tear her hair out. The termite program, as simple as it was, was proving to be difficult to change into the kind of virus-laden, self-replicating hacking machine that Lou had asked for. She looked at the clock and groaned. Soon she would have to pick her children up from school. Her husband usually took them to school on his way to work. He maintained a small studio and office away from the house, mostly so he could feel like he was going to work each day and could focus on his comic strip. Her workshop was in the two-story garage, but the computer area was inside the house, where the climate was more controllable.

Sighing heavily, she cupped her chin and cheek on her hand as she scrolled down the code that Tony Cho had written and she had added to. _This isn't working. I need another pair of eyes to look at it._ Glancing at the clock again, she thought, _I wonder what Hiram is up to? I don't know if he'd have time, or would even touch something like this... but I can ask. He might be amenable if he knew why I was writing it. But I won't send it unless I know he's willing to look over it. _

She saved her changes and closed the file, then began to compose an email. "Hey, Hiram. I find myself in the unenviable position of writing what some would call a piece of 'malicious code'..."

xxxx

Breakfast on Tracy Island found John eating heartily.

"Slow down, John!" Eleanor chided with a smile. "You don't want to have an upset stomach on your way up to Thunderbird Five, do you?"

"How could I, Grandma, with yours and Kyrano's fine cooking inside me?" he quipped. A final bite and a last gulp of coffee, then he was done, wiping his mouth and hands on his linen napkin, leaving it crumpled beside his plate. He gave the old woman a peck on the cheek before he left the room. "Thanks for a delicious breakfast, Grandma. I'll be back for a proper goodbye as soon as I've gone over Three's preflight checks."

"You'd better, John Tracy, or you'll be hearing from me!" she called after him, waving an egg covered spoon in his general direction.

Gordon passed his brother in the hall and chose that moment to enter the kitchen. He took a step back to avoid being spattered by the contents of his grandmother's weapon. "Whoa, Grandma! Easy on the artillery there! I'd like to eat breakfast, not wear it!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Gordon," she said, stepping closer to buss him on the cheek then returning herself and her spoon to the stove.

"And a good morning to you, too, Grandma," he said with a grin as he returned her kiss. "Nice to see you feeling better and more like your old self! Good morning, Kyrano."

"Good morning, Mr. Gordon," Kyrano said from the opposite end of the kitchen where he was busy proofing the day's baking and preparing a breakfast tray.

"I had a good night's sleep and it made a world of difference." Eleanor stirred the eggs in the pan as Gordon poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat down at the table.

As he did, Jeff came in, and smiled when he saw his mother standing at the stove. "Good morning, Mother. It's good to see you up and about and feeling better!" He put his hands on her shoulders from behind and kissed her cheek. Then he glanced up at Kyrano. "Good morning, Kyrano. Who is the tray for?"

"For Lady Penelope," the retainer explained. "Mr. Parker relayed her request to have her meals in her room until further notice."

Jeff frowned. "I suppose that's to be expected. She has been very affected by... this incident." He poured himself a cup of coffee, fixed it to his liking, and sat down at the head of the table. "I'll talk to her later, try to draw her out into society again." Picking up the freshly printed paper, he asked, "Where is everyone else?"

"Mr. Brains is still asleep, as is Mr. Parker," Kyrano explained. "They both were up until the small hours of the morning. I believe Tin-Tin is awake and should be making an appearance soon. Mr. John has eaten and is tending to Thunderbird Three's preflight checks. And both Mr. Scott and Mr. Virgil have eschewed breakfast for coffee. I am unsure as to their whereabouts."

"Hmm. I hope this means Scott's doing what I told him to," Jeff muttered. Eleanor put a plate of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and country sausage down before him. She placed another equally filled plate in front of Gordon, then returned to the stove for her own breakfast. Setting first a cup of tea, then her plate at Jeff's left, she waited as Jeff got up and pulled her chair out for her, helping her to settle into her seat. Kyrano finished his work with the tray, and carried it off to present it to their guest.

"What was going on between those two yesterday, Jeff?" Eleanor asked, having taken a sip of tea. "Both of them were bandaged up, and Virgil looked like he had been on the wrong end of someone's fist. Neither of them was talking much and most certainly not to each other!"

Jeff sighed. "They had an... altercation, Mother. Virgil was offended by something Scott said and took a swing at him. You know how Scott is, Mother. Someone else may start a fight, but he'll be the one to finish it. He defended himself, and Virgil took one in the jaw."

"But what could Scott have said that would have caused Virgil to take a poke at him?" Eleanor persisted. "It must have been very bad."

"I don't know what Scott said," Jeff replied truthfully. "I've already told him to make things right with his brother. I hope that's what they're doing now."

"I hope so, too," Eleanor said, in a tone that indicated to Jeff that she wasn't going to leave the subject alone until she got to the bottom of it. Jeff shook his head. He wanted to tell his mother to drop it, to stay out of it, but a part of him wanted the whole story, too. So, he held his piece, and changed the subject.

"Scott will be going to Peter Riordan's wake and funeral," he said. "I'm giving him 72 hours leave to get there and back."

"That's going to leave us pretty short-handed, Dad," Gordon protested. "I mean, John's going up to get Alan, but he's supposed to be working on FAB-1."

"He'll fill in for Scott should we have a rescue," Jeff said firmly. "And I'm going to have Scott fly over the States to LA and pick up Kenny Malone on his way back."

"Won't that put him in danger of exceeding his flight hours?" Eleanor asked. She was aware that, since the family had to fly to get just about anywhere, Jeff was strict about maintaining a legal level of flight time, including the hours the boys spent in their Thunderbirds. He never added those hours into the logs he sent to the World Aviation Administration, but since the Thunderbirds were faster than just about every other craft on the planet, they really ended up being rather negligible, especially in Scott's case. So even though the boys often flew the legal limits and sometimes a little beyond, it always looked on paper as if they were well within them.

"No, Mother. Parker will go with him. He has his pilot's license and since the story we concocted for the authorities in Unity City had him as a good friend of Peter's, he should be there." Jeff took another sip of his coffee and a bite of his eggs. When he had swallowed, he continued, "He and Scott can come up with a convincing story on how Peter and Parker met en route to Ireland."

"Well, if anyone can come up with a convincing lie about anything, it's Aloysius Parker," Eleanor said tartly. Gordon rolled his eyes at his grandmother's bald-faced statement, and Jeff chuckled from behind his newspaper.

xxxx

Midafternoon in New York found Cindy Lou returning from a session at the local health club. She still worked out on her own in the garage, using the weights and punching bag, but she had joined the club for a wider range of cardiovascular exercises... and to meet people in her new town. She was still checking out places where she could practice her marksmanship; those who had created her new persona had remembered to alter the gun permit, but had trouble updating the pilot's license. As a result, she was still waiting on that particular piece of documentation.

She entered the house through the back door, checking the screened in porch to see which cats were there. Snowball and Midnight were curled up on either ends of the long, window level shelf, taking their afternoon naps, soaking up the afternoon sun. Snowball raised her head briefly to blink at her mistress, her green eyes barely visible behind the open slits of eyelid. Then she yawned mightily, curling her pink tongue, and put her head back down, as if to say, "Oh, it's only you."

Cindy Lou shook her head, smiled, and entered the kitchen. Dropping her workout clothes by the entrance to the basement, she took out a glass and filled it with ice and water from the cryofridge. Sipping it as she walked, she headed for her office, stopping to turn on the sound system before sitting down at her desk. Here she found her other two cats, Spot and Moofums, sharing the now cleared space on the left hand side of her desk. Moofums was grooming Spot, licking the tortie's short, mottled fur in directions that it wasn't really meant to go. Spot lay patiently still, her position sphinx-like, enduring the ministrations of her "sister's" tongue with what seemed to their owner to be amazing forbearance. The woman smiled more and sighed, reaching out to scratch each cat between the ears. Spot looked over at her, but Moofums never stopped the rhythm of her grooming.

"Now, lessee if Dee has come up with anythin' yet," Cindy Lou murmured as she sat down before her computer. She checked her emails first, and came up with one from her friend to the south.

_"Lou, this is beyond me right now. I've got too many other things to think about and Cho's design, though simple, is really tight and hard to work with. Sooooo... I've asked my friend and yours, Hiram Hackenbacker, to take a look at it. Don't know if he'll do it; malicious code may turn him off, even if it's for a good cause. But I'm asking, and if he says yes, I'm sending it to him. Ciao, Dee."_

Cindy Lou broke into a grin and chuckled. "Well, Dee, yew've picked th' rahte man fer th' job. If'n anyone's interested 'n helpin' out Inte'national Rescue, he is."

xxxx

"Virgil?"

"Scott." Virgil didn't turn from where he had been leaning on the balcony rail, looking off into the waves, a mug of coffee cradled in his hands. The island's peak still cast its shadow on that side of the island, and would for at least another hour or so. But the sun's rays could be seen in the glitter of the sea farther out from the island, and it was this that had caught the artist's eye. _Maybe tomorrow I can be prepared to capture it._

Scott approached the railing, standing to Virgil's left, taking a large gulp of his coffee before leaning on his elbows in a position similar to his brother's. The two men stood there for a long quiet moment, Scott trying to think of what to say, Virgil pretending to ignore his brother, and neither of them having much luck. Finally, the younger man snorted, and turned to leave. Scott reached out quickly and grabbed his forearm.

The response was immediate; Virgil brought his arm up sharply and tried to twist it out of his brother's grasp. Hot coffee sloshed around in Scott's cup, spilling some onto his damaged hand, staining the bandages and scalding the skin. But he ignored it and held on tightly to the limb, saying in a rough voice, "Listen to me for a minute, would you?"

Virgil stopped trying to extricate his arm, but kept it raised. He glared at his brother, hard brown eyes meeting Scott's blue ones. "Why?"

"Because I need... I want to apologize. For what I said yesterday."

The younger man dropped his arm. "Oh. So, apologize."

Scott let go his grip and took a deep breath. "Look, Virge, I'm not apologizing for reaming you out about the pod. I had a point about your treatment of John and you know it. But, I am sorry, very sorry, for what I called Lady Penelope. It was over the top, and I never should have said it." He stopped to run his free hand through his hair. "I'm very angry with her right now, Virge. If she had done her job properly and gone in with a better disguise, she wouldn't have been discovered. And Pete would still be alive."

Virgil continued to glare at him for a long time, then finally said, his voice hard, "You're right about what you said being over the top. It was over the top and totally uncalled for. And you've got no cause to be angry at Penelope. You don't know what would have happened even if she had chosen a different disguise. Scott, think of who we're dealing with. He's got those weird mind powers and he might have easily been able to read her mind to discover who she was, just like he's read Kyrano's mind in the past. Her disguise would have been worthless against him no matter what she looked like!" He paused for breath and his voice lost its edge. "Besides, she feels bad enough about this as it is. So bad that she's debating on whether or not to continue as an agent."

The blue eyes opened wide. "Really? She told you this?"

The younger man nodded slowly. "Yes. That's what we were talking about before you came looking for me."

"Damn." Scott shook his head slowly. "I didn't know." He stepped forward and put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I'm sorry I insulted her like that, Virge. And I'm sorry for socking you on the jaw. It was purely reflex, you know."

Virgil raised his hand to his jaw and lightly rubbed the sore spot. "Yeah. I know. I'm sorry I took a swing at you. Purely reflex, you know."

His brother raised an eyebrow and smiled wryly. "Note to self: don't diss Virgil's girls."

Virgil snorted. "Yeah, well, she's not 'my' girl. Not yet anyway. I haven't talked to her about... that." He shrugged. "It's not really the best time, y'know."

His brother grunted agreement, then asked, "Have you talked to John yet?"

"No, but thanks for reminding me. I'd better talk to him before he leaves." Virgil took a gulp of his coffee and grimaced. "Ugh, it's cold. I'm going to get some fresh stuff. Then find John."

Scott nodded, then reached out to touch Virgil's arm. "Virge? Are we cool here? Apologies accepted?" He held out his free hand.

Virgil stood still for a moment, then took the proffered hand. "Yeah, Scott. We're cool. Apologies accepted."

"Good," Scott said with a smile. "You'd better get hold of John. And get the coffee before Gordon and Dad drink it all."

"I can always ask Kyrano to make a fresh pot. I'd make one myself, but I haven't gotten the grounds to water ratio down yet. My stuff always looks like motor oil and tastes worse."

"Yeah, I noticed. Every time you've made it on a rescue." Scott motioned toward the house with his head. "Better get going."

"Right." Virgil saluted his brother with his mug, and strode back into the house. Scott turned back to the balcony rail, and watched the island's shadow slowly retreat as the sun rose in the sky, feeling somehow lighter hearted than he had since Peter's death.

xxxx

It was late afternoon on the east coast of the United States, when "Derek Edwards" set his plane down on the tarmac in this busy little city's jetport. The air smelled of salt from the nearby Atlantic, borne on a wind that ruffled his dark hair as he climbed out of his craft. It was cool and bracing, not at all like the languid sea zephyrs of the Caribbean. He buttoned up his flight jacket against the stiff breeze and went in search of the rental car he had reserved.

He made a quick stop at a pay phone to use the computerized directory, and then, once ensconced in the non-descript sedan, he plugged the address he had gleaned into the car's onboard GPS, which generated a map and directions to his destination. He turned on the stereo, found a station he liked and headed out of town, taking a southbound road. He glanced over at the steel briefcase he had picked up from a locker in the Charlotte airport, one he had left behind after the invasion of Lou's house in Asheville. Caressing the cold metal, he smiled._ This little baby has everything I'll need to put my plan into action. And if this doesn't lure out the cat woman, nothing will._


	21. Conferences and communiqués

_Author's Note: _Plans, thoughts and conversations. My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading and being a sounding board.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Math Girl: **Thanks for the good words on the vignettes. I think the brothers' relationship is very tight and that's why they can disagree but still be close. More apologies in this chapter. Is Grandma recovering? Looks like it, doesn't it?

**Mad Friend: **Thanks so much for the compliments on my stories. I think John is a man of many talents, very few of which we saw on the show. As for Tin-Tin's talents, it's not so much her as it is the fabric in this case. I'm glad you saw the "come-hither" look when you went back and watched the episode. I've always seen that sultry look, and coupled with Virgil putting his hand on her face... well, there you go! And there might be a chemistry with Jeff on her part, but it's on her part. The age difference is bigger than most people realize especially when you hear her voice. Still, Jeff hasn't said anything to her about his own feelings... yet.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

Virgil stood next to the control console on the railway car in Thunderbird Three's silo, patiently waiting for the couch that gave access to the spacecraft. He couldn't help craning his neck and gazing up at the red Thunderbird as he waited; the sheer size of the thing still amazed him every time he entered the silo. He recalled the handful of times he had piloted Three and how nervous he was when it came to landing the craft. It was somewhat like threading a sewing needle with a piece of yarn... without touching the edges of the eye. 

He remembered vaguely that his father had started calling the spaceship a "him" when he'd last taken a trip up to the space station. Thinking about the way Three docked with Thunderbird Five, he understood why. Alan, however, still called Three a 'her" and claimed "she" was as much his "baby" as Thunderbird Two was for Virgil. _I wonder what John calls Three, _Virgil mused as the sofa arrived and he sat down. _I'll have to ask. _He put the two sealed travel mugs beside him, then pushed the button on the console that would send him up into the lower levels of the space craft.

The sofa clicked into place on level four, known to all as "the lounge". Virgil supposed it was the acceleration couches, so reminiscent of the loungers by the pool, that had earned it the name. That and the couch which now sat so prominently in the middle of the chamber. He picked up the coffee mugs and stepped into the tiny lift that would take him up to the command level, where he thought he'd find John. It was Virgil's intention to surprise his brother if he could. Unfortunately, on his way up to the command center, he caught a glimpse of John on level two, data pad in hand, checking over the supplies. What was worse, John happened to glance his way when the lift went by, so Virgil knew his attempt at surprise was a lost cause. He sighed as he reached the command level, pushed the button that would close the door as soon as it opened, and poked the one marked "2". The little elevator obediently moved downward, and the door opened again, this time on the proper level. He stepped out into the chamber, and frowned. John was nowhere to be seen.

"Hello, Virge," came a voice behind him. Virgil's head whipped around sharply, and his body followed. John was leaning casually on the rounded outer wall of the lift, in a spot where someone coming out couldn't immediately see him. He grinned as he pushed off from the wall, putting the pad down on a nearby shelf. Pointing to the mugs, he asked, "What's that?"

"Peace offering," Virgil replied, handing one to him. "I think that's yours."

John popped the seal on the cup and peered inside. "Looks like it, since I don't take mine black." He sniffed the dark liquid, then gave his brother a keen look. "_You _didn't make this, did you?"

Virgil took a sip from his mug and rolled his eyes. "No, I had Kyrano brew a fresh pot. I know my limitations."

The blond took an appreciative sip, then a larger gulp. "Ahhh. That's good." He leaned up against one of the cabinets that held medical supplies. "So, why the peace offering?"

"Prelude to an apology," Virgil said, looking down and taking an audible breath before raising his head and meeting John's gaze. "John, I'm sorry for the way I acted on Thunderbird Two the other day, dropping the pod and all. It was very unprofessional and selfish of me, and I'm sorry I did it." He held out his hand, much as Scott had done for him not long before.

"Ah. I see." John took another gulp of coffee, then transferred his cup from one hand to the other so he could respond to his brother's concession. "Apology accepted."

The older man grinned, and John smiled back. "So, I suppose Scott 'discussed' the incident with you...?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah. He 'discussed' it, all right." Virgil joined his brother in leaning up against the cabinets. "That and a whole lot more." He rubbed his jaw lightly. "But we've made our peace as well."

"Good. I was hoping you would. After all, I won't be here to referee for a couple of weeks."

Virgil whacked him lightly on the shoulder. "Ow!" John exclaimed, moving his cup over again so he could rub the spot vigorously.

His brother shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "Drama queen. You've been hanging out with Gordon too much."

"I beg to differ. I don't hang out with him enough. But speaking of the little devil, he confirmed something that Scott told me. Something about you and _Penelope_?"

His shoulders slumping, Virgil groaned. "Does everyone in the house know about this now?"

John cocked his head to one side, tapping his forefinger on his chin. "No, I don't think so. I doubt Grandma does, or Tin-Tin, or Brains, for that matter. Dad probably doesn't. I don't know about Alan... but I hope not. He's got a crush on her, y'know."

"Ugh," Virgil grunted in disgust. "Yes, I'm aware of that little fact. And you're wrong about Dad. He knows." Virgil took a big gulp of his coffee. "Let's see. You, Gordon, Scott, and Dad know. Grandma, Tin-Tin and Brains probably don't. Alan's iffy. What about Kyrano?"

John shrugged. "I'm sure _he_ does. He probably knows everything that goes on around here. He just doesn't let on." He drank some more coffee. "But how about the lady herself? Does _she_ know?"

Virgil sighed, a long soulful exhalation, accompanied by a slight shrug of the shoulders. "I'm... not sure. I've never actually _said_ anything. I was going to yesterday before Scott found us to have that 'discussion' with me. But the moment passed and now, I don't feel like it's a good time. She's really cut up about Peter Riordan's death."

His blond brother nodded. "I can see that. And I understand why this is a bad time. But you need to tell her. If she hasn't gotten the message from your 'come-hither' look..." That earned him another whack on the arm. "Hey! _I _didn't call it that!"

"Then I'll get Gordon for it later." Virgil sipped some more coffee. "Mmm. The caffeine in this will keep me going all day." He paused and glanced over at John, studying him speculatively. "So, when are you going to call this Brigitte of yours?"

The question took John by surprise. "Hmph. Hadn't thought about that. I suppose I should call her before I leave for Five, just to confirm that I'm interested, but then, I wouldn't be able to phone her again for a couple of weeks. And truthfully, I really don't have time to call her now and have the kind of conversation I'd like to." He frowned at Virgil. "This is more complex than I thought."

"Want my advice?"

"What do I have to pay for it?"

"Nothing. You just gave me some, now I'm returning the favor."

"Uh, okay. Shoot."

Virgil suppressed with difficulty the urge to mimic Gordon's reaction to that particular command, which was to point a finger at whoever gave it and say, "Bang!" To help him, he took another gulp of coffee, then replied, "Email her before you go. Explain to her that you'll be away for a couple of weeks and you won't be able to call her until you get back. Then email her from Five a couple times while you're there. That shouldn't cause a problem with Dad if you funnel it through the official IR server at first; after all, she_ is _an agent. Later, when you get back, switch over to your personal address."

"Hmm," John said, nodding. "Sounds like a plan, man. Thanks."

Virgil put a companionable arm around John's shoulders. "Hey, what are brothers for?"

"Let's see: fighting and arguing, blabbing your secrets to all and sundry, carrying you home when you're drunk, watching your back, putting crabs in your bed..."

He was about to get whacked a third time when their father's voice broke in. "Thunderbird Three from Control."

John left off his litany and exchanged glances with Virgil before answering the hail. Jeff's face appeared on his telecomm screen. "Thunderbird Three here."

"Are you done with preflights yet? Launch is in thirty minutes and counting."

"Uh, just about finished, Control. Be up top in twenty."

"Good. We'll see you then. Control out." The picture vanished.

John looked up to find his brother had picked up the data pad and was scrolling down the list for the spot where the astronaut had left off. Virgil didn't look up as he said, "I'll finish the inventory for you while you get the command checks done, if you haven't done them already."

"Thanks! I did the command checks first, but this will give me time to put on my uniform... and get off a quick email to Brigitte. Since I'll be going solo, I won't have time to change unless I put him on autopilot."

"Ah! So you call this thing a 'him' too. Interesting!"

John laughed. "It's the biggest phallic symbol _I_ can think of. Besides, to me, it's _Five_ that's a 'she'. For more reasons than one."

Virgil shook his head and chuckled, moving over to the cabinets where John had stopped during his inventory. Thunderbird Three's current pilot gave him a jaunty salute, then entered the tiny elevator for a ride to the command level, where his uniform was stored.

xxxx

_"Dear members of the Agent network,_

_"This letter is to inform you of a tragedy which has befallen one of our number. Agent 53, based in Unity City, was killed in the line of duty on March 17, 2068. He was a fine agent, and a good man, and he will be missed by all who knew him and worked with him. He leaves behind his wife and three young children._

_"Because of this tragedy, I have made some decisions regarding the Agents network. I have come to the realization that some of what I am asking of you as agents may be too difficult for you to handle. For the most part, you have merely been required to report what you hear that might be of interest to me, something which the network as a whole excels in. But I have also requested that you be flexible, ready to provide at short notice whatever services are needed, whether it's arranging for security, or medical care, or even going as far as participating in covert operations. And those of you who I've called on for such services have stepped up and delivered them admirably._

_"But not everyone can do these extra things. Some of you work in professions such as law or computer technology that could be better used for our cause by helping us outside of our regular operations. A few of you have training that qualifies you to participate directly in some of our more discreet operations, beyond just communicating facts to us. And for some of you, gathering and reporting information is all you can do, or would choose to do._

_"The changes I plan to make are in two steps. For the first step, we at Base, as a team, will be going over what we know of you to try and determine what tasks you excel at and what we could call on you to safely do, as well as those situations where it would be best you were not involved. So, if you have any skills that we may not be aware of but should know about, please forward them to Base. On the other hand, if there are things you feel you can't do or are unwilling to do, please forward those also._

_"Once these evaluations are made, the second step will be a general restructuring of the Agents system. We will label each agent with those strengths and skills that we've identified. As a result, any particular agent will be called on for jobs above and beyond information gathering only when their particular skills are needed. All agents would be expected to continue communicating data and news to us. The new restructuring might mean more travel for some of you as your skills may be needed away from home, or it might mean the installation of new equipment so you are prepared to better use your training and experience for us. These possible needs will be handled on a case by case basis._

_"Now, for the hardest part of this letter. With the death of Agent 53, it's become clear that what I've asked of you can be extremely dangerous. I didn't anticipate this when I set up the network, but its reality has been brought home very forcefully. The possibility that another agent would lose his or her life is there and, now that it's clear to all, we must be realistic about it. _

_"Some of you, on considering this reality, may decide that you would rather not continue as an agent. Or you may choose to end your association with our organization for other reasons. If this is your decision, please tell me. I will respect your wishes, and will remove you from the rolls of our Agents network with no hard feelings on our part. The communications equipment in your home will be deactivated, and even removed if you'd like. Your monthly stipend will be reduced over a period of three months, then discontinued. We would officially part company but hopefully our individual friendships would remain intact. All I would ask of you would be your continued silence regarding our activities and personnel._

_"Please give careful thought to this last matter, and respond according to your own situation. I want all of you to be fully informed about our requirements and the possible dangers of being an agent. If you have any doubt whatsoever about your role in our organization, please think carefully about your commitment to us. But no matter what you decide, I need to hear from you within the next three calendar weeks._

_"Thank you for your hard work on our behalf. _

_J.T._

_Commander"_

Jeff looked over the letter once again, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing it with two fingers. He wondered if the language of it was too vague or too wordy, or if perhaps it were too simplified and needed editing to make it less conversational. _I hate these kinds of letters, _he groused. _Penelope thought it sounded clear and concise, but maybe I'd better run it past Mother. She'd tell me if I were being too obtuse._

At that moment, the green couch that sat parallel to his desk dropped into the floor, to be replaced shortly after by a duplicate holding a uniformed John and, surprisingly, Virgil. Jeff put his data pad down and smiled. "Ready to go, John?"

"Yes, sir. I am," John replied as Virgil left the sofa and he stood up. "Just here to say my goodbyes for a couple of weeks."

"Let me tell the household," Jeff said, activating the whole house intercom. "Attention, everyone. John's ready to leave for Thunderbird Five."

It took a few minutes, but soon nearly everyone was gathered in the lounge to give John a good send off. Everyone but Lady Penelope, who sent her bon voyage wishes via Parker, and a very busy Brains, who sent his via Tin-Tin. John received hugs and kisses from the two women, handshakes, claps on the back, or quick embraces from his father and brothers, and a deep bow from Kyrano, which he returned. Then he sat back down on the couch, and his father, with a final farewell, sent him on his way. The family hurried to the balcony to wait for the launch, while Jeff sat behind the desk to monitor air and sea traffic around the island and give the space ship permission to take off. He joined the rest of the group just in time to see the red rocket ship roar out of its silo into the late morning sky and zoom quickly out of sight.

The group slowly dispersed, and Jeff tapped Eleanor on the shoulder. "Mother, will you read over this letter I've written and tell me what you think?"

"All right, son. I'm coming," Eleanor replied.

She passed into the lounge before Jeff, and as he followed, he heard Parker say to Tin-Tin, "Ay'll come wiv ye, Miss Ky-ran-oh. Ay mayht be h'able t' give Mr. Brains h'a 'and wiv h'it. Wouldn' be th' furst tayme Ay 'acked h'a com-pew-teh."

_Parker... a hacker? Since when?_ Jeff asked himself, rather stunned at the thought. But before he could pursue the matter, Eleanor called from within the lounge, and he turned to join her.

xxxx

Penelope sighed as she ended her phone call. The conversation with Melissa had gone rather well, she thought, and the young widow was grateful for the effort put forth by the two politicians in Unity City. However, Penelope's chat with England's Prime Minister, Edward Trelawney, had not been as successful. First, it had been necessary for her to track the man down herself as his lackeys were steadfastly refusing to forward her call to him, wherever he was. She had left a somewhat threatening voice mail message, reminding him that she still had that picture from his last business trip to Cancun and wouldn't his wife just love to see it? As a rule, she didn't like to use blackmail to get results, but in the case of powerful men, it was sometimes the only cudgel she had.

He had returned her call within thirty minutes, but sounded rather irritated at the interruption to his schedule. So she had succinctly asked him why he had denied Alison St. Clair's employment with his office. His reply was equally curt.

"My dear Penelope, you know very well I had no real plans to visit Unity City until the next elections. But Alvarez had those papers out and, well, I had to tell him the truth about my schedule. I am terribly sorry if you are inconvenienced, luv, but Carlos is an old friend who knows me entirely too well. As for his discovering who you really were, he shan't. I made sure of that." His eyes narrowed as he looked at her in the vidphone screen. "By the by, Penelope dear, how_ did _'Alison' get away? I understand that _you_ had trouble with 'pirates' and a man was killed..."

"That, dear Edward, is my own affair. But I must not keep you any longer. Good day, Edward."

"Wait! What about that picture?"

"Good _day_, Edward." And she had ended the conversation, feeling more than a little bit rankled by his defection, and hoping that the Prime Minister had indeed erased Alison's records from his database. _I shall have to tell Parker to check, and to deal with any traces accordingly._

xxxx

Alvarez stood in the broad window of his office, a cup of hot green tea in his hand, gazing out at the sea. Already the sky was beginning to subtly change color with the approach of sunset. Someone knocked at the door and he called, "Venido."

Ramirez came in, a data pad in hand. Alvarez didn't turn, just sipped his tea and asked, "Any word from Franks?"

"Yes. As he surmised, the Myles woman is no longer living where he had found her before, and none of the neighbors would give him her new address. He reports he has a way to draw her out of hiding, but it will take a few days."

"As I suspected. He is stalling. I doubt he will be able to find her at all. No matter. I must proceed with the rest of my plan." The imposter finished his tea, then turned around. Reaching up to his black armband, he tore it off and tossed it onto the desk. His eyes met those of the secretary as he said, "Fernando, mourning is over. Now it is time to prepare for His Excellency's return to Unity City."

xxxx

In the lab, Tin-Tin set up a computer station for Parker as the chauffeur paid a visit to his beloved Rolls. "Jus' ye wait, ol' gehl. Mr. H'Alan's on 'is way an' ye'll be rayte h'as rain quicker 'n' quick," he cooed as he ran his hand over the bonnet, now covered with a mottled combination of black, silver, and pink paint due to a malfunction in the chameleon circuitry. "Then we'll go h'all go 'ome."

"Mr. Parker? We're ready for you." Tin-Tin's voice rang out over the loudspeaker in the pod vehicle repair bay, where the Rolls awaited her expert repairman.

"Ay'm comin'!" the reformed crook called. He gave the hood ornament a swift buffing with his sleeve, then stomped up the stairs to the main lab.

"Over here, Mr. Parker," Tin-Tin directed. The older man sat down at the computer station that had been rigged for him. "I set this up on a laptop because I know that you're going with Scott to Ireland in the morning. This way you can take it with you. Plus, it's isolated from the rest of the network so that any virus can't get out and wreak havoc with our servers. If you need to use the 'Net, just log in on my computer and download what you want onto a disk."

"Where'll ye be, Miss Ky-ran-oh? H'In case Ay 'ave h'enny questions."

Tin-Tin smiled, and pointed to the opposite corner of the room. "I'll be over there working with Brains for a bit. I promised him two hours today, one before lunch and one after, then I'm going back to my sewing." She shook her head. "I never knew that Penelon could be so difficult to work with!"

Parker laughed his cautious, "Heh heh heh. Makes ye want t' strangle th' bloke 'oo came h'up wiv h'it, don' h'it?"

"At the moment, yes," the girl admitted. She cocked her head at him and gave him a puzzled look. "Excuse my curiosity, but when did you learn how to hack computers?"

Parker waved a hand. "Com-pew-teh pro-grammin' wuz part o' th' h'oc-yew-pay-shun-awl trainin' 'Is Majesty's gov'ment gave me while Ay wuz h'in stir. Learnin' t' wrayte code came ratheh h'easy t' me. H'An' Ay do 'ave th' rep-pew-tay-shun o' bein' h'able t' h'im-preg-nayte th' h'im-preg-nay-bul, so t' speak."

Tin-Tin smiled at his explanation. "You certainly are full of surprises, Mr. Parker." She squared her shoulders. "Well, if you find you need help with anything, just ask."

"Ay shall, Miss."

Tin-Tin left him then, and the reformed second-story man cracked his knuckles out of habit, then peered at the screen as he opened up the attachment Dee had finally sent along.

xxxx

"I think you've struck the right tone here, Jeff," Eleanor said as she handed back the data pad. "Not too folksy and not too stuffy. When are you going to send it?"

Jeff stared at the screen for a moment, not really seeing the letter, but lost in his own world. Then he gazed over at his mother. She saw the apprehension in his eyes, the crease of worry on his forehead, and she got up from the chair she was in and went to put a hand on his shoulder. With the other hand, she took the pad from him, and laid it down on the desk. "You don't have to send this now, Jeff. It can wait for another day."

He closed his eyes and looked down, and when he raised his head and opened his eyes, she saw determination there once again. "No, Ma, it's got to go out, and now is the time. I may lose a lot of agents, and we all may lose some friends, but it has to be done."

He sat down, and she moved with him, her hand still on his shoulder. With a few keystrokes, he downloaded the letter to his computer. He carefully went through the group of email addresses he was sending it to and removed the one belonging to Peter Riordan. He also made sure that Penelope's IR server address was included, an action that made Eleanor frown slightly, but she held her peace. She felt his shoulders rise as he took in a deep breath, then fall again with his silent exhalation as, with a few more keystrokes, the letter was on its way.

"It's done," he said quietly.

She rubbed his upper back gently as he put his elbows on his desk and linked his fingers together, propping his forehead on his folded hands. "Why did you include Penelope?" she asked as she stopped her rubbing to rest her hand on the back of his neck.

"Because she has already seen the letter... and she wants the choice."

Eleanor stopped to consider this for a moment, then asked, "Do you really think she might leave IR?"

Jeff nodded slowly, his forehead still resting on his hands. "God help us if she does but... yes, Ma, I do."

xxxx

Scott opened the email from his father's scheduling people, and smiled. The note was to confirm hotel and car rental reservations for himself and Parker in Peter's hometown of Londonderry, known simply as Derry to the locals. There was also a separate email confirming the flight plan he had filed for his father's JT-1, with a stop in Los Angeles for refueling and change of pilot. _Twelve thousand miles. Less than an hour's trip in Thunderbird One but, with the hour stop in Los Angeles, it will take seven flying JT-1 at maximum. I've gotten spoiled by One's speed, that's for sure. But there's no way Dad would let me take her on this trip. And I won't have much time in Derry either. Dad's adamant that I be home within 72 hours, picking up Kenny Malone on the way back._

He opened up his garment bag and began to pack, pulling out his dark blue suit and brushing lint, both real and imagined, from the lapels. _I wonder what the weather will be like in Derry? I suppose I should bring my overcoat. _Pulling his dress shoes from the closet, he sat down to tend to their shine. He knew he could ask Kyrano to shine them for him, and the retainer would oblige, but keeping his shoes at a high gloss was a task that he liked to do for himself. It was something he'd learned to do in the Air Force and sometimes it came in handy, especially during those trips to the offices in New York, when a late night would make it difficult to get shoes shined by morning. Besides, as far as he was concerned, no one else could do it to his exacting standards, not even Kyrano.

Scott settled down with his kit, brushing tiny bits of dirt from the sides of the shoes, adding a touch of polish and smearing it over the leather. He was just beginning the buffing phase of the process when a flash of pink, white and gold caught his eye. He knew what it was; Lady Penelope had just walked by the half-opened vertical blinds of his wide window. _Why is she walking out on the balcony? _he wondered. _Probably doesn't want to meet anyone from the house. _He went back to his task, then paused mid-stroke as his conversation with Virgil came back to him. _Am I being fair to her? Virgil had a point when he said she might have been discovered no matter how she had disguised herself. Gaat is a cunning and dangerous man and we don't really know everything he can do with those powers of his. _

He unconsciously tossed his shoe from hand to hand, as if it were a football, then realized what he was doing and went back to buffing it. _Okay, okay, I'll admit it. Maybe I'm **not** being fair to her... but I still think Pete's death could have been avoided. Maybe not by Lady Penelope, but by Dad. If he had let me do as I suggested, Peter wouldn't have had to set those incendiaries off, and he wouldn't have encountered the man who killed him. Sometimes it seems like Dad thinks more about International Rescue's reputation and security than he does about the people who make the damn thing possible. _

Finishing one shoe, he started on the other. _Or... maybe if I had disobeyed orders and followed my gut instincts... I guess that's the real crux of the matter. **I **could have done something to help, but I didn't. Instead, I obeyed orders, sat on my hands, and my friend died. That's just **not** supposed to happen in IR. Not to agents._

He let out a long breath, suspending his chore for a moment as another thought hit him. _What is Melissa going to think about the money? About the family debts being paid? Did Pete tell her about IR? Dad hasn't said that agents can't tell their spouses; Jeremiah Tuttle's wife Maud knows about it. How is she going to feel if she knows that Pete died for IR? How will she react if she learns I could have...? Oh God. _He dropped his shoe and put his head in his hands._ All I want to do now is help. But will she let me? Or will she hate me for not acting when I could have?_

xxxx

Cindy Lou stared at the translation John had done of Tony Cho's email and sent back to her. She had been deep in thought for some time now, wondering if she should bring it to the attention of the head of Interpol, Piers Donovan._ I just don't know. The email implicates me in the use of that termite that got into Interpol's files. Which might be a good thing, since it would exonerate IR, but do I want to tell Donovan the whole story, holding back only who runs International Rescue? How far up does the corruption go? For all I know, **he** might have been the one who ordered my plane to be sabotaged. Interpol **does** come under the authority of the Minister of Security, after all. Still, I'd hate to see Tony's killers go unpunished. And it** is **evidence in an ongoing investigation._

She got up and made her way into the kitchen, taking the remains of her microwave dinner with her. _Maybe if I found out who in Singapore is in charge of the case and sent it anonymously, removing my name from the greeting. I don't know if they'd catch on to the "Erd" part of Erdman, though; I sure didn't. They couldn't trace my ISP number, and if I used the box that Tony used most often, then closed it down, it would pretty much keep them from finding me... though finding my domain would be a separate issue. I can't close the whole thing down, too many people are using it to contact me now. I suppose I could safely send a copy of the email from a public terminal in Manhattan; those attendants can't remember every customer that comes in. But then there are the security cameras, and how to pay for the time... oh, hell! Maybe I'd be better off sleeping on this idea._

The cats followed her as she entered the kitchen, milling around, rubbing up against her ankles and meowing. "What's up wit' yew?" she asked, rinsing her dish then throwing it into the recycle can. "Ah jes' fed y'all!" A quick check of the kibble level in the self-feeder revealed the problem, and Cindy Lou got out the big Tupperware storage container to refill the smaller bin. As she began scooping the kibble out, Midnight bullied his way past the females to be the first one to eat the fresh stuff, while Snowball, never one to wait on ceremony, put her paws on the storage bin and tried to eat directly from there. The woman rolled her eyes and pushed the white cat away. "He'll be out o' yoah way soon, Snowy. Jes' have a li'l patience." She sealed up the container and returned it to its cupboard.

Getting a glass of chilled wine from the cryofridge, she leaned up against the counter, her eyes focused on the cats, but her mind elsewhere. _I think I could manage it from Manhattan. My disguise should be sound enough. I don't have to use the Cindy Lou accent, and if I pay cash... no, not cash. I'd probably be remembered; so few people use cash these days. I have to find a way to pay for the transmission without being traced, and that's the hard part. Maybe Jeff would have an answer. But... I don't want to be running to him all the time. I should be able to do this on my own. Don't want him to think I'm a helpless female._

She sipped the wine, shook her head and smiled at her own thoughts. _Hmph. Like he'd think that anyway. Lucinda May Myles, you know damn well you're just looking for an excuse to call him. And why do you feel you need to have one, huh? Can't a friend call a friend without a reason? You used to phone Lucille like that all the time and talk for hours._

Another sip of wine, and she sighed. "That's the rub, isn't it?" she said softly and without a trace of drawl, speaking as if to another person. "This isn't Lucille. This is Lucille's _husband_. An attractive, eligible man that you're already very emotionally attached to. A man that you could very easily fall in love with. But a man who, in his heart of hearts, is still married to your late best friend. Do you _really _want to go there, Myles? Because if you do, the odds are very high that you'll get your heart broken all over again."

The noise of cats hissing and spitting brought her out of her contemplations. Spot and Snowball were facing off over the kibble, hackles raised and tails lashing back and forth. Midnight was walking away, unconcerned, his turn at the feeding trough over, his appetite satisfied for the moment, while Moofums uneasily circled the two combatants. Cindy Lou gulped down the rest of her wine, rinsed the glass and put it in the auto washer, then turned her attention to the brewing feline conflict.

xxxx

Penelope hoped to return to Kyrano's garden without meeting any of the extended family, but it was not meant to happen. As she approached the stairs that curved from the wide upper deck down toward the pool, she saw Jeff leaning on the balcony rail, gazing out to sea. He glanced her way, his face troubled, but smiled slightly on seeing her. Standing up straighter and turning toward her, he said, "Hello, Penny. Come out to enjoy the day?"

She sighed internally and approached him. "Yes. I was restless in the guest room and thought that Kyrano's garden might provide me with some peaceful solitude. That is, if Virgil is not painting there again today."

Jeff shook his head. "I'm not sure where Virgil is right now. He had been with John just before Thunderbird Three launched, but I don't know where he went after lift-off."

"Then perhaps I shall walk on the beach instead," Penelope said, a hint of disappointment in her tone.

"No, let me find out where he is for you." Before she could protest, Jeff lifted his wrist and called into it, "Jeff to Virgil. Where are you now, son?"

Virgil's surprised face appeared in the tiny watch screen. "I'm inside, about to come up to the lounge and practice. Why?"

"No reason, son. Just wanted to know. See you in a few moments. Jeff out." He smiled a bit wider at Penelope. "There you are. The garden is free of artists. Unless, of course, the garden's main artist, Kyrano, is down there. But he wouldn't bother you, I'm sure."

Penelope hid her mild irritation at Jeff's obtuseness under a slight smile. "Thank you, Jeff, for you help. I shall retreat to the garden for a bit." She turned to go, then stopped suddenly and swung back to face him. "Jeff?"

"Yes, Penny?"

"My friend in Unity City says that..." She paused as she searched for the proper name to use. "...Alvarez-Gaat has ordered a complete investigation into the 'disappearance' of my undercover alter ego. I am not very concerned that my own identity would be uncovered, but Peter did... bleed... a good deal." She swallowed, then continued. "A DNA test of the blood left on the beach could possibly place him at the cay when he was supposed to be on _Seabird_ with me. If there is someone who could determine where Peter's DNA records might reside and could remove them, it would protect him from investigation and his wife from questioning at this difficult time."

Jeff's eyes widened in consternation. "You have a point there, Penny. Lucinda Myles did mention that the fingerprints in the file she obtained weren't Scott's, Gordon's or John's because they weren't in any military database. How many places would have such information anyway?"

"Quite a large number, I should say, depending on the individual situation." Penelope smiled, a genuine one with a touch of slyness about it. "Have no fear for your sons, or even for yourself, Jeff. I had Parker remove the fingerprint and DNA information of your family from as many places as we could find as a matter of course. Tin-Tin's and Brains's records have been altered as well. After all, it just would not _do_ to have an operative of International Rescue jailed and his or her fingerprints identified. But if the same has not been done for the agents, it is perhaps time to do so. I suggest you approach Agent 38, Renée Baptiste, for assistance. She is uniquely qualified for the task."

His face looking thoughtful, Jeff nodded. "I'll talk to Lucinda, too, get an idea where investigators would be likely to look first, then we can concentrate on those places right away. Thank you, Penny, for bringing this up."

"You are quite welcome, Jeff." She took a deep breath. "I think I shall find the solitude of the garden now."

"Right. Will we see you at dinner this evening?"

"Perhaps."

As she turned again to go, Jeff called, "Penny? I never knew Parker was a hacker."

She glanced over her shoulder and gave him a small smile. "A result of his time at Dartmoor Scrubs, I fear. It is a skill few would credit him with, but it has made him all the more invaluable to me, and ultimately, to International Rescue."

"Yes, I can see that," Jeff replied, nodding slowly. "See you later, Penny."

With a last, small smile, she made her way to the steps and carefully descended. Jeff watched her go, then returned his gaze to the sea for a moment. But Penelope's warning began to weigh heavily on his mind, and he sighed, then turned back into the lounge to make a vidphone call.

xxxx

Brigitte Andersen toweled her long, freshly washed blonde hair towards a semblance of dryness, then began to pull a stiff brush through the thick mass, wincing slightly as she encountered an occasional tangle, but working the brush through. It was the price she had to pay for having such long tresses, but it was one she paid willingly. Once or twice she had entertained the idea of cutting it all off, especially after a particularly difficult fire where her hair, even pulled back and braided, added to the sweaty heat of her protective gear. But the thought was short-lived when she realized how long it would take to grow her mane back and how she might look during the process. It was vanity, pure and simple, but one that she indulged in without guilt.

As she continued her grooming, she checked her answering machine. Finally off-duty for twenty-four hours, she had hoped to find a message from that handsome operative that she had met... _what was his name? Oh yes, John. _He had said he would call, but there was no message left from him. Just one from her brother in Stockholm, and a cryptic one from Renée Baptiste telling her to check her email. A sigh, a shrug, and Brigitte erased the messages. She booted up her computer and as it came to life, she started a pot of strong coffee. If she were to call her brother back, she would need the stimulant to fortify her for the long discussions they often had. While the coffee brewed, she returned to the machine, keyed in a password, and found herself in the secure email box where orders from International Rescue usually came.

To her surprise, there were two messages. One was from the familiar address of the commander, and seemed urgent. The other was from someone calling themselves "Operative Five". This puzzled her; when the agents communicated amongst themselves, which was infrequently, they would be identified as "Agent" then the particular number assigned. She clicked on the one from the commander first.

Brigitte read it through twice, feeling tears prick at her eyes as she reread the first paragraph, and as she realized the real purpose of the email: to give anyone with doubts or fears a way to step out with dignity. _I will not leave_, she thought to herself. _They need the brave, the committed, and I am both. Peter was right; the cause is worthy. And I am less likely to die in service to International Rescue than I am in my chosen profession. _She replied to the email with one simple line: "Tell me how else I may serve the cause."

Then she turned her attention to the other email, the one that puzzled her. Opening it, she scanned down the page and smiled, then returned to the beginning to read and savor it.

_Dear Brigitte,_

_Forgive my laxness in not contacting you before this, but things at Base have been hectic since we met. So much so that I am being sent on assignment away from Base for the next two weeks. But I did not want to leave you with the impression that I had forgotten my promise or am not interested in pursuing a friendship. There is no provision for vidphone calls where I am going, but there is for email, and I hope you will reply to this and we can carry on a conversation until I am able to actually phone you. _

_Awaiting your reply,_

_John_

She left the missive burning there as she fetched herself a cup of coffee, and returned to begin composing her reply.

xxxx

It was night when "Derek Edwards" returned to the little motel he had registered at. He had spent the day exploring the roads and land surrounding his target's home. Now he sat down with a map and his laptop, starting a search for real estate in the area. _I need to find an empty property, out of the way and unlikely to be visited by the realtor in the next week or so. Once I've found what I want and have gained access, I can focus on observing the household and its routine, find out where everyone goes and when. Then in a few days, I should be able to make my move and get Lucinda to come to me. _He smiled grimly as he thought of his former partner. _I'll have you by the short hairs this time, Luce, without any sheriff's department or visiting billionaires to get in the way._


	22. Departures and Arrivals

_Author's Note: _Attempts to cover a trail fail, and people leave for Peter's funeral. My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading and being a sounding board. Bluegrass, I hope I got the accent right! If not, let me know.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**fellowriverrat: **Thanks so much for the good words about the Virgil/John apology. Yeah, Virgil is still being the idiot child... mwahahahah! Jeff is going to find out the depth of loyalty his and his family's friends have for them. Glad you liked the little Brigitte interlude as well. As for your request, lo and behold, here it is! A chapter without... uh... those words in it. (I'm not even going to put them in the author's notes!) :P

**Math Girl: **Thanks for the compliments about the emotional depth and in the memories as well. Events like this tend to bring the emotions close to the surface. Parker's skills are being put to the test, that's for sure. (And it would have to be Defcon 2068 or 2069 in my story.)

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

The eyes on Alan's portrait blinked, and Jeff reached over to activate the communication system. The static image of the young blond switched over to a live picture of him, sitting behind Thunderbird Three's controls. "Base from Thunderbird Three. On final approach and requesting permission to land." 

Jeff, who had an earphone/boom mike in one ear, smiled at his son, then pulled up a real-time scan of the area around the island in a separate window on his computer screen, showing the position of any vessels in a 100 mile radius. Nothing was close enough to the island to be a problem, so he said, "Permission granted, Thunderbird Three, and welcome home."

Alan grinned. "ETA to landing, seven minutes. See you in a few, Da... I mean, Commander."

"See you then, Sigma." Jeff switched off the communicator and sighed. The new code names had yet to become second nature, something that he had hoped would happen sooner rather than later. He went back to reading the email on his screen, one of dozens of responses, both online and on the phone, that he had been receiving all afternoon in the wake of his earlier announcement.

He stared at the screen, remembering the call he had made to Lou, who dropped the drawl for him as he picked her brain about the possible whereabouts of Peter's DNA records.

"Well, an investigator would look first in criminal records, of course, then military, justice, and governmental employee databases next," she explained. "If the information isn't in one of those, he'd go farther afield, running searches into licensing bureaus like aircraft licenses or some motor vehicle departments..."

Jeff cut in. "You mean you have to give DNA samples when you get a driver's license now?"

Lou smiled and shook her head. "No, not DNA samples _per se_, but fingerprints most definitely. And DMV's are notorious for cross-referencing to other databases that would also have the fingerprints, and possibly the DNA files as well."

"I'll remember that next time I get my license renewed," Jeff said sourly.

She chuckled. "Just don't make that face when they take your picture, that's all." A pause for a gulp of whatever she was drinking, and she continued. "Places that grant teaching licenses, physician licenses and certifications, and other smaller registries would also have the DNA records. Hey, even marriage licenses require them now! And more and more countries are adding DNA records starting at birth, so that the file follows a person throughout life. But that's only been in the past five years or so, and it's not too widespread... yet."

"Whatever happened to right to privacy?" Jeff groused.

Lou shrugged. "Went out the window after the big terrorist actions at the beginning of the century, I'd guess. The DNA files are _supposed_ to be private, heavily encrypted, and only accessed either with special permission from the person whose file it is, a court order requiring the file be available, or with a 'compelling reason'. Most murder cases and terrorist investigations routinely fall under 'compelling reason' these days, especially when it comes to identifying bodies. Of course, there are a number of hackers who know how to get around the encrypting and tamper with the files. I think that Tom, the guy who was compiling all the information on your family business, had gotten some kind of special permission from higher up to search for those fingerprints he'd obtained. What kind of permission those investigators in Unity City would have, I couldn't say for sure. But since it looks like an attack on the home of a government official, and a mysterious person has disappeared from the premises, I'd say their forensics team would have the clout to initiate a broad search."

"How long do you think it would take?" Jeff asked.

"Hmm. It all depends on what kind of importance the justice agencies put on the incident. The more important it is, the more liable it is to bump lesser forensic investigations and searches back, though they can only go so far with that or else the data they collected for the other cases would be useless. My guess is that this would be a high priority. Since this happened where it did, Interpol is probably working hand-in-hand with the Unity City officials and using the local facilities for testing, but the Interpol system for the database search." Lou sighed and shook her head. "This isn't going to take them long, Jeff. Twenty-four to thirty-six hours, maximum, for both analysis and search. Very likely less."

"Damn. It's been longer than 24 hours, I'm sure," Jeff said with a groan. "I was hoping we'd have time to remove the DNA files of our agent across the board."

"Jeff, it's not going to hurt to try. Find out what places are most likely to have them and start there. Then go farther afield." She raised her eyebrow and gave him a wry smile. "I take it that Hiram has the skills to unravel the encryption?"

"He probably does, yes, but he's not the one I'm calling on."

"You mean your... family business has more than one computer... uh... expert?"

"Yes, as I've found out just today. One of my closest agents has unexpectedly turned out to be an... expert, as you say. Gave me quite a shock to discover it! He's a most unlikely candidate."

"Well, I wish him luck. Anything else you need from me?"

"I wish I had more time just to talk with you," Jeff said wearily. "But this situation can't wait."

Lou lowered her gaze with a smile. "I understand, Jeff. Besides, it's late here and I'm getting sleepy. Oh, here's something you should know. I'm going to be sending that email from Tony Cho on to the Interpol investigators in Singapore. The original Chinese, not the translation."

"Won't that implicate you in the use of the termite? And won't they be able to trace where it came from?" he asked, concerned.

"I'll be removing my name from the greeting, which should protect me but, unfortunately, will also taint the evidence. Even so, the rest will give them some direction on the case, especially if they manage to figure out that 'Erdman' business. And I'm going to send it from a public terminal in Manhattan. I think I've figured out how to pay for it, too. I'll use a prepaid, general purpose gift card. I can purchase one on my way into the city and use it once I'm there. Not totally untraceable, but nearly so."

"That still sounds rather risky, Lou. Is there any other way to do this? I mean, you said no one could trace your computer's activities."

"Yes, that's true enough, Jeff. When I'm surfing, I leave no traces behind. But I have to use a valid email address to send the file from, and though I can close down whichever one I use, they might be able to trace my domain. And I don't want that to happen. Using a public terminal makes me just another face in a crowd."

Jeff tapped his chin with a stylus thoughtfully. "I see. Lou, let me think about this for you, okay? There's got to be a better way to send it, one that's not going to expose you at all."

Lou looked back at him for a moment, then smiled softly. "Okay. I'll hang on to it. Besides, I just thought of something. The Erdman gang has that little email scanner out there, and this would be a perfect way to deliver a certain little surprise package to them."

"Do I want to know what _kind_ of surprise you're talking about?" Jeff asked, an eyebrow raised.

She shook her head and made a face. "Nah. At least, not right now. I'll tell you about it later. Got to get the package first, anyway."

"Okay. But keep me informed on what you're up to, Lou. I don't need any more sudden shocks!"

"In due time, Jeff, in due time. I'd better let you go." She covered up a yawn, but not quickly enough to keep him from yawning in return.

"Right. Goodbye, Lou, and thanks for all the help."

"Anytime, Jeff. Goodbye."

Jeff had immediately called down to the lab, where he surmised Parker was working, and gave Tin-Tin instructions to pass on to the newly-discovered hacker about where to look for Peter's DNA records. _I just hope we're in time. Melissa doesn't need to be questioned about Peter's whereabouts, not now, and especially if she has no idea what he was really up to. It might create some awkward questions in her own mind if she doesn't know about Peter's side job._

Jeff was brought back to the here and now as the couch before his desk disappeared into the floor, and was replaced by its twin, with Alan sitting comfortably on it. "Hey, Dad!" he called as he arrived.

"Hello, Alan!" Jeff exclaimed, getting up from his chair and coming out to greet his youngest son. He clapped him on the shoulder, then drew him in for a quick embrace as the young man stood up. "How was the flight down?"

"Smooth as silk, Dad, no trouble at all. And John's brought me up to speed on some of the things going on around here lately. Did Scott really punch out Virgil?" Alan asked as he stretched, reaching up as high as he could with his arms and momentarily standing on tiptoe.

Jeff made a sour face as he returned to his work station. "Yes, he did. But I understand they've made their peace. Alan, I know you're here to work on FAB-1, but I also expect you to take Thunderbird One starting tomorrow morning. Scott is going to Peter Riordan's wake and funeral, and so will be gone for a few days. He's to pick up Kenny Malone on the way back to give you another set of hands."

"Okay, Dad," Alan replied amiably. "Let me get my gear stowed and my clothes changed and I'll go down and take a look at it."

"Wait until after dinner, Alan. Your grandmother and Kyrano have been cooking your favorites."

Alan chuckled. "All right, Dad. I'll just take a look in on Penelope then. I bet she's missed me," he said. "She always does."

Jeff squinted at him for a moment, then his face cleared when he remembered that Alan had named his pet alligator after the aristocrat. As he recalled, the human Penelope had not been terribly impressed. To her, alligators were for making shoes and handbags. Very expensive shoes and handbags.

"Go on, Alan. I'll see you at dinner," Jeff said, returning to his computer. He closed the email he had just finished, one from an agent in Johannesburg, South Africa. The woman was an old friend of Penelope's, a vicar, and she wrote that she was most decidedly staying on as an agent, and would remain flexible as to her duties. Out of the dozens he had already viewed so far, no more than one or two agents had decided to leave the ranks and another handful had indicated that they would prefer to limit their activities to information gathering. He made notes of these, shuffling the messages to other folders for future reference.

He opened the next one on the list, one from Agent 87 in Unity City._ Ah yes! The firefighter who helped Penelope. _The single line of the message made him sit back and smile in amazement and wonder.

"Tell me how else I may serve the cause."

_Oh, God. How did we end up with such... such wonderful, loyal friends._

The vidphone rang again, and Jeff reached out absently to answer it. "Jeff Tracy here."

"Well theyah, Jefferson Tracy! Took me th' bettuh paht o' th' nahte, but Ah fine'ly got threw t' yew! Whut 'n tar-nation d'yew thahnk yer doin' sendin' out thet theyah lettah?"

Jeff turned to give his full attention to the screen and grinned at the gray-haired, mustachioed man who stared back at him. "Jeremiah! Jeremiah Tuttle! You old hound dog! It's good to see you!"

Jeremiah gave Jeff a very serious look. "It's good t' see yew, too, Jeff. But yew'd bettuh start talkin', ol' son, 'cause'n Ah wants t' _know _whut's been goin' on thet made yew send out thet dad-blamed lettah!"

Jeff rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, and snorted a small chuckle. "Well, you see, Jeremiah, it's like this..."

xxxx

Melissa Riordan sighed as she left the confines of the taxi that had transported her to the airport very early on a warm and tropically wet morning. Two of her three children, Peter James, also known as P.J., and daughter Kaylie, followed her. P.J. opened up the umbrella, holding it over his mother's head as they waited for her cousin's wife, Rose, to come out of the other side of the cab, little Quinn's hand held firmly in her own. The cabbie opened up the trunk of his hack and brought the family's bags to the skycap, then tipped his hat at Melissa. "I'm sorry about Pete, ma'am. He was a good man, honest and easy-going. We'll miss him."

Melissa mustered a sad smile. "Thank you, George," was all she could say without breaking down. Then she turned and, with Rose's help, shepherded her children into the terminal.

They went through the checking in process, then headed upstairs to the security checkpoint and the departure gates. There was a woman standing to one side, looking over the few passengers who were arriving, and when she spotted the little group, she came forward with a warm smile. "Mrs. Riordan?"

Melissa glanced up at the well-dressed, dark haired lady. "Yes?"

The woman held out her hand. "I am Addison Kennicot."

The new widow took the outstretched hand and pressed it briefly. "It's good to meet you, Madame Senator. Thank you for all your help in getting my Peter home safely."

"You're very welcome, Mrs. Riordan. I understand how important it is to bring your husband home to his people." Pulling a long envelope from her handbag, she handed it to Melissa. "These papers should be presented here and at Customs in Belfast. There are letters in there confirming the diplomatic status of your husband's remains as well as your own small party. Should there be any problems whatsoever, call me or Ambassador Conley. You'll find his number on his letterhead. Here is my card; my home phone is listed on there as well as my direct office line."

"Thank you again, Madame Senator," Melissa repeated. Then she frowned, a puzzled look, and looking Addison in the eye, said, "My children and I have been the recipients of many unexpected favors from a number of unusual sources since Peter died, and I don't quite understand it all. I have to ask, Madame, why are _you_ doing this? And why are you here, when you could have easily sent a secretary or courier?"

Addison took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "The favor I am doing is as much for an old friend, who asked me to do it, as it is for you and your family. But as for my attending to this personally...," she swallowed heavily, "...it is because I see myself in you and your circumstances. My husband died very suddenly two years ago, and left me in a very similar situation. I had to make a trip much like one you are making today." Taking another deep, rather shuddery breath, she smiled softly at the children before turning her eyes to meet Melissa's gaze once more. "So, should you find you need anything else, including a sympathetic ear, please don't hesitate to call."

Melissa nodded, dropping her gaze. "I'm sorry for your loss. And thank you for the offer. I will remember it." She exchanged gazes with Rose, and turned to her children. "It's time we were going. Goodbye, Madame Senator."

"Farewell and Godspeed," Addison replied. She watched as the small group passed through the security checkpoint, Melissa showing them the papers as she had been instructed. Then she sighed and pulled out her phone. Speed-dialing a number, she said, "Anne? Please reschedule all my appointments. I shan't be coming into the office today."

Melissa was nonplussed as the flight attendant directed her and her little group to the first class section. "There must be some mistake," she said in protest. "I reserved seats in coach."

"There's no mistake, ma'am," he replied kindly, glancing over her boarding passes. "Someone upgraded your reservations for you." He indicated the section with an expansive arm. "Please, take your seat."

Melissa did as she was instructed, and glanced across the aisle to Rose, who looked as perplexed as she felt. "What's it all about, Melissa?" Rose asked.

"I don't know," the young widow replied, shaking her head. "But someone is trying very hard to make this time easier on us. I wish I only knew who and why."

xxxx

"Well, Trish?" Ciprian asked his partner via vidphone. "Did de forensics team come up wit anyting?"

"Yes, so it did. I'm readin' the report now," Patricia answered irritably. "I'll email ya a copy." Both detectives had arrived early for work, waiting for the promised report from the forensics lab. "Now, this is interestin', so it is. The DNA in the pool a' blood that was hidden don't belong to a woman. It matches that a' one Peter Riordan, formerly a' the British Royal Air Force. The other bloodstain belonged to the suicide, Luis Guiterra. But listen to this! None a' the fingerprints we found for St. Clair have any match on file. And there were two different hairs found in Alvarez's office, black and blonde. The black ones were traced to a wigmaker in London, and my mates up there're looking into it, so they are. But the blonde ones don't have a DNA match anywhere. But definitely female hair, so it is."

"Riordan, Riordan," Ciprian's dark face was frowning in concentration. "Where have I heard dat name before?" His face cleared and he clapped his hands once. "Of course! De man who died during a recent pirate attack! He was supposed to be visiting a friend on de friend's boat... I'll look up de reports on it."

"Ah, but C, mate," Patricia said, wagging a finger at her partner, her voice sounding very much like the cat who caught the canary. "If our Mr. Riordan was on a boat with a friend, just how did his blood come to be on His Excellency's beach?"

"De very question I was going to ask, Trish," her local counterpart said, a wide, white smile decorating his face. "Perhaps we should ask de widow."

"A fine idea, so that is. I'll ring her up, and get back to ya." Patricia cut the call, and while Ciprian waited for her to phone him again, he began to pull up the data on Peter Riordan's death.

"Dere's not much here," he muttered to himself as he scanned the official reports. "I wonder if de newspapers might have more." He began to search the newspaper morgue files on the subject when his vidphone rang. "Badeau here."

"C, me mate, we're too late, so we are! The widow left just this mornin', headed for Belfast a' all places! And there's more, so there is! She, her children, and her husband's coffin are travelin' under diplomatic papers! Courtesy, so I'm told, a' the Irish Ambassador, Mr. Conley, _and_... the Honorable Addison Kennicot, senator from Great Britain!"

"Dat's very strange, Trish. Why would someone let de remains of a taxi driver travel under diplomatic immunity? I don't understand it."

"Perhaps we'd should go back and ask the senator a few more questions."

"I tink you're right, Trish. I'll be over to get you in a few minutes."

xxxx

"Well, Parker?" Scott asked as the manservant climbed into Jeff's jet, notebook computer in hand. "You ready for this trip?"

"Yus, Mr. Scott, that Ay h'am," Parker said fervently. "Ay'll be h'askin' ye questions on th' way, so Ay ken come h'up wiv h'a gud story fer Mr. Riordan's family." He hefted the computer. "Ay've got summat t' do h'on Missus Myles's com-pew-tuh virus, too."

"Sounds like you'll be keeping busy on the ride to L.A.," Scott responded with a grin. "JT-1 to control, requesting permission to take off."

"Permission granted, JT-1, and have a good trip," Jeff's voice sounded in Scott's headphones.

"Roger that, control. Back in three days." Scott maneuvered the jet out through the smaller aircraft door set into the massive cliff face that doubled as the entrance to Thunderbird Two's hangar. He fired the engines to achieve the right amount of thrust to get the plane into the air despite the relatively short runway. Then he throttled forward, building speed quickly, so that they were actually airborne by the time they reached Thunderbird Two's launch ramp. He gained more altitude over the ocean, then banked in a wide arc and headed east. The island already looked like a green and white sponge sitting in the bathtub of the Pacific as they flew over. "You okay back there, Parker?" Scott called.

Parker swallowed heavily and said in a slightly strained voice, "Yus sir. Ay h'am."

Scott grinned again and set his course for Los Angeles.

The first hour or so of the journey was quiet except for the tapping of computer keys as Parker continued working on the malicious code he's been set to alter and rewrite. Curiosity piqued, Scott finally called back, "What is it you're doing? A virus for our honorary aunt, Lucinda?"

"Yus, Mr. Scott. She sent h'along h'a fayne exhample o' h'a termayte. Ay've never seen such h'a tayte but simple bit o' code. She wants h'it t' h'act h'as h'a virus, an' h'a termayte, an' drop li'l replicas o' h'itself, h'alter jus' h'a bit fer later h'ak-ti-fay-shun. H'A fair challenge, h'if Ay do say so mayself."

"Sounds complex. Am I right in understanding you learned how to do this in prison?"

"Yus, ye h'are. Took t' h'it layke h'a duck t' water, Ay did." Scott heard a louder, more purposeful "click", then the quieter "snick" of the laptop closing. "Mmm. Ay'll come back t' this later. May h'eyes need restin' summat."

There was a quiet moment as Scott checked his instruments, then Parker cleared his throat with a pronounced, "Ahem."

"Yes, Parker?" the pilot asked.

"H'It 'as come t' may h'a-ten-shun, Mr. Scott, that ye've been rather... cool t' Milady o'er th' past few days..."

"Yes, Parker?" Scott asked again, a touch of warning in his tone.

"May Ay h'ask whay?"

Scott didn't answer for a while, turning over in his head exactly what he should say to Penelope's chauffeur. He waited a bit too long, it seemed, because Parker cleared his throat noisily again.

"Look, Parker," Scott explained with a bit of irritation. "Pete's death was a big shock to me, and I thought it could have been avoided. At first, I thought that if her ladyship had done a better job in disguising herself, there would have been no reason for you to rescue her and he wouldn't have died. But Virgil and I had a... a talk, and he made me realize that Gaat might have been able to see through her disguise no matter how good it was. I know now that I was being unfair to her, but I haven't had time to make things right with her."

"Will ye be makin' thin's rayte?"

"Yes, yes, of course I will. When we get back from this funeral. I want to do it in person." The eldest Tracy took in a deep breath and blew it forcefully out of his nose. "I... I just think Pete's death didn't have to happen. It shouldn't have happened. It was... senseless."

Now it was Parker's turn to be quiet. Just as Scott was ready to ask him what he was thinking, he said, "Peter didn' think so."

"Peter didn't think what?"

" 'E didn' think 'is death wuz senseless. 'E wuz proud t' die fer Inte'national Rescue."

Scott was getting angry. "And how exactly do _you_ know this?"

" 'E tole milady. H'In FAB-1. 'E wuz dayin' an 'e tole 'er t' tell yer dad. T'was 'is last words."

His anger turned to incredulity, Scott twisted around to stare at the Cockney behind him. "What did he say?"

Parker gazed off into the clouds, gathering his thoughts. " 'E said... 'e said. 'Tell th' boss, t'was worth h'it."

" 'Tell the boss, it was worth it'," Scott repeated. "That's what he said?"

The chauffeur nodded slowly. "Yus. That's what 'e said."

The pilot slowly settled back into his seat. "Damn," he whispered. He passed a hand over his mouth and shook his head. "Damn."


	23. Cover Stories

_Author's Note: _Scott and Parker are in Ireland, and more intrigue. My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading and being a sounding board. A bit thanks to Bluegrass, for her information on Irish wakes and funerals. I hope I got the accent right, Blue! Also, any Spanish you see in the chapter was translated from English by Alta Vista's Babel Fish.

**_Special Note: _**After writing (and posting) chapters 23 and 24, I remembered something from _Serendipity_ that would change the plotline quite significantly if I pursued it. I felt I should, so part of this chapter, and its corresponding bit in chapter 24, were altered to reflect my epiphany.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Math Girl: **Glad you like Parker-the-Hacker! As for straightening out Scott, he's at least given the man food for thought. And I fully intend for John to be in the thick of it as much as he can be from Thunderbird Five. Jeff has yet to tap the loyalty of his agents, but we don't get to see it in this chapter.

**FrankieC:** Yes, it was a shock for Scott, and he's still grappling with it. No, Jeremiah's not too happy that Jeff is writing such letters. Now, the question about Melissa is: will she find out at all? Stay tuned for that!

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

"Jorge!" Ramirez shouted, entering the computer room and bearing down on the dour little man. "Have you been able to access His Excellency's files yet?" 

The computer expert didn't even turn his head. "No. Not yet," he snapped.

"You know that His Excellency cannot return to Unity City without those... adjustments made to his personal information," Ramirez reminded him. He sniffed derisively. "At least his mole at Interpol has taken care of the evidence there." He put his hands on Jorge's computer desk, one on each side of the man, and leaned in very, very close from behind. "I would not like to be you if you fail this task, _el pequeño_."

The wizened Jamaican turned his head slowly to stare, unblinking, at Ramirez. "I'll not fail."

"Are you sure?" Ramirez taunted. "His Excellency is getting impatient."

Jorge's eyes narrowed. "I'm gettin' notting done wit' you 'ere. And I'll tell His Excellency so if he come to ask why de delay."

Ramirez chuckled, a slightly amused sound. "Just keep your attention on your computer,_ el pequeño_. I will be back for an update in an hour." He levered himself back to stand straight, and left, closing the door loudly behind him.

Jorge muttered curses on the man who had just left and continued his attempts to access the data he wanted.

xxxx

Renée Baptiste scanned the file on the disk she had just received via diplomatic courier and smiled grimly. As soon as she had heard from Jeff that the minister of security was a fraud, she copied his personnel data and that of all his staff to a series of disks then set them aside in an envelope with a thumbprint lock. She knew that at some point the imposter would need to return to Unity City as part of "his" duties and might be asked to verify his identity. _The only way he can truly do that is to give a sample for DNA testing, which means he would have to replace the real minister's data with his own. I should hope that the level of encryption we have used to secure the information in those subfolders would withstand any attack from without, but... there's is no telling who he has working for him or what that person can do. _

She closed the file, opened the envelope with her thumb, and added the disk to the small stack that already resided there. Her latest acquisition had the official seal of the Panamanian government on it, and contained only one file: the arrest record of one Carlos Esteban Alvarez, age 20, complete with fingerprints and DNA sample in their encrypted subfolders. The current minister of security had been arrested for entering Panama illegally during a time when that country was cracking down heavily on drug smugglers and arms dealers coming from the south. Alvarez had been smuggling nothing more than his personal belongings, but he was still arrested, tried, convicted, and deported back to Columbia after spending five months as a "guest" in one of Chepigana's jails, waiting for the wheels of justice to turn.

No reason had been given for his illegal entry, but having read the "public" part of the file, and knowing what she did about Alvarez's biography, Renée suspected it had something to do with Engracia Ynez de los Santos, the Panamanian woman who would later become his wife. The entire incident had been mentioned in a brief, dry footnote made by her predecessor when Alvarez was confirmed to his office. The opponents to his confirmation had dug it up, but had not used it against him, seeing it as merely a youthful indiscretion. She doubted anyone remembered it.

_If this imposter manages to get past the encrypting, or changes anything in the personnel file, the arrest record should give me something to refer back to, something proving that the pretender is a fraud. I only hope that he has not already corrupted the files in our database. This imposture may have been going on for as long as His Excellency has been in mourning, and that would have given him plenty of time to make those alterations or at least attempt them._

xxxx

It was around 2 p.m. local time when Parker set the JT-1 down at City of Derry Airport. He was tired; over the past few days his body had grown accustomed to the rhythm of Tracy Island, and now here he was, back in Greenwich Mean Time, seven hours flight but twelve hours worth of time zone away. He taxied the jet over to a private hangar, bringing the craft to a halt within the confines of the building, and settling it just where the guides indicated he should. Then he went about extricating himself from the safety straps as behind him, Scott did the same.

"There's supposed to be a rental car waiting for us, Parker," Scott explained to the chauffeur. "But you shouldn't be driving. Not with all the flying you just did."

"Beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Scott, but Ay _will_ be drivin'. 'Tis may job, remember?" Parker replied stubbornly. Conversation was halted momentarily as he climbed out of the cockpit, his movements stiff.

Scott followed, stretching and yawning when his feet hit the tarmac. He put his hands up in a gesture of appeasement. "Okay, okay. I won't fight. We'll see when and where the wake is planned for, and if it's already going on, we can join in this evening, after some rest."

"H'Am Ay rayte in supposin' that th' h'ee-vent 'twill be at 'is family's 'ome?" Parker asked as he stood near the plane's tail, overseeing the removal of the baggage from the cargo hold.

"Yes, it should be. And I know where they live," Scott replied. "Unless they've moved, which I doubt they would. I'll call and be sure, though." He tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder. "Let's get through customs and find that car. The sooner I get some shut-eye, the better I'll like it."

"Yus, sir." Parker draped the strap of Scott's garment bag over his shoulder, then picked up his own suitcase and Scott's larger one, leaving his companion to carry only a small travel bag. Scott frowned at the inequality of the load.

"Are you sure you can handle all that? I'd be glad to take my suitcase."

"Heh heh. Don't worrah, Mr. Scott. This h'is nuffin' compared t' what 'Er Ladyship 'as me luggin' h'about," Parker quipped. The eldest Tracy son shook his head slowly as the two of them made their way to the small plane terminal and the customs inspectors.

xxxx

It had taken the detectives a few hours to track down the Honorable Addison Kennicot. She was not in her office, or on the Senate floor, and her secretary stubbornly refused to tell them where she had gone. On top of that, when they finally found her at home, they ended up interrupting her at luncheon. She met them in her home office, sitting behind her desk, obviously displeased at the intrusion.

"Please make this brief, detectives."

Patricia crossed her legs at the knee and took out her PDA. "We were wonderin', Madame Senator, so we were, what connection ya have with the Peter Riordan family."

Addison frowned, her eyes glancing from one detective to the other. "Why do you want to know?"

"We were given to understand dat you provided diplomatic status to Mrs. Riordan and to her husband's coffin today," Ciprian said, consulting his data assistant. "And that you asked de Irish Ambassador to do de same."

"Yes, that's true," Addison admitted. "Again, I ask: why do you want to know?"

"We're interested in the reason why ya did this, Madame Senator," Patricia said. One eyebrow rose in challenge. "Ya don't seem to travel in the same social circles as a cabby and his family, so ya don't."

Addison carefully regarded her visitors again. Then she sighed. "If you must know, I was asked to do it by a dear friend. And Mrs. Riordan's plight struck a chord with me. I made a similar journey two years ago."

"Who is de friend?" Ciprian asked bluntly, his voice still pleasant.

"Is that really any of your concern, detective?"

Ciprian gave his partner a keen glance, one that virtually asked, "Do we tell her?" Patricia nodded slightly, and the Unity City detective turned back to Addison. "I'm afraid dat it is, Madame Senator. Blood, of which de DNA matches dat of Peter Riordan, was found on de Minister of Security's beach after a terrorist attack. His Excellency tells us dat Ms. St. Clair, who was his guest, was kidnapped during de attack."

Patricia noted with satisfaction that the stiff upper lip of the senator crumbled a bit, and she paled. The politician regarded the two detectives again, her eyes narrowing, then she sighed and her shoulders slumped. "The name of my friend is Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward."

xxxx

Scott knocked on the door to the Riordan's home. It was an old house, but well-kept, two stories on a street not far from the Foyle River. Scott had been there before, in Peter's company, during his college days and before his friend joined the RAF. He remembered the man who opened the door to him, but the last time he had seen Peter's father, James, the man's hair had been a lot less white and he hadn't been carrying as much weight as he carried now. James peered up through bifocals at the strapping man who stood before him and at the shorter, unfamiliar man who stood behind him, his hat in his hand. Finally, in a voice that croaked, Peter's father asked, "Scott? Scott Tracy? Is it you?"

"Yes, sir. It's me. I've come to pay my respects to my friend." He turned to the chauffeur and said, "This is Aloysius Parker, an old drinking buddy of Peter's and mine. Uh, Al? This is James Riordan, Peter's father."

"Pleased t' make yer h'ah-kwain-tense, sir," Parker said, bobbing a touch.

"Come in," James said, opening the door wider to admit the two men. Scott smiled a bit and nodded, and Parker hung his cap up on a coat rack by the door.

There were more than a dozen men already gathered, four or five of them providing a slow, sweet melody on flute, whistle, and fiddle, the beat kept by a man playing the bodhran, a traditional Irish drum. Everyone but the musicians had drinks in their hands, mostly pints of Guinness ale, known there as "the black stuff". Peter's coffin was there, open, with the kegs of ale and beer and bottles of Irish whiskey set on the smooth top. Scott made his way through the room to the coffin, where Peter's older brother, Sean, was pouring out the liquor.

"Scott Tracy? It's good t' see ya again," Sean said amiably, holding out a hand to shake Scott's. "What'll it be?"

"The black stuff," Scott said. He took a look at Peter, noticing the expert make up job that gave color to his friend's previously paper white cheeks but obscured the freckles that covered Peter's face. He sighed, then turned to Sean to take the froth-topped pint. Parker had taken the same, and before Scott took a sip, he raised his glass and said, "To Peter. A true hero."

There was a smattering of voices echoing, "To Peter," and Scott turned from the coffin. He surveyed the room and noticed two men, dressed in sharply pressed slacks and button down shirts, standing apart from the knot of family and family friends. He made his way over to them, and held out his hand. "Scott Tracy." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "This is Aloysius Parker."

The taller of them, a sandy blond with a thick mustache and an English accent, introduced himself and his companion, "I am Terrence Ainsworth, and this is Reg Seaton." He and his friend shook Scott's hand, then Parker's. Terrance asked, "How do you know Peter?"

"We went to Oxford together, and stayed friends afterwards. You?"

"We were...," Reg began. He looked over at the family members then turned his attention back to Scott. " We were stationed together."

"Ah! I understand," Scott said, nodding. He took a deep drink of the Guinness, and licked his lips. He did understand somewhat; for these were two RAF friends of Peter's and showing up here now was a possibly provocative move. Not only because of "the troubles", as the Irish described their struggle, but also because they were a reminder of a part of Peter's life his family would most likely wish to forget.

Terrence turned to Parker. "How did you know him?"

Parker had been in the middle of a gulp of ale when the question was asked, and he finished swallowing, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Me an' Pete were drinkin' buddies while 'e wuz h'at h'Oxford. 'E an'... Scott... found th' pub where me an' me mates loiked t' bend h'an h'elbow. 'E wuz h'a cheeky bloke, Pete wuz. 'E challenged me t' h'a game o' draughts once, 'e an'... Scott... 'ere. Scott fell t' may supe-ear-ee-or skill, but no' Pete. 'E wuz h'a good player, an' h'a better sport when 'e lost."

"Wait a minute," Reg said, frowning a bit. "Aren't you the one whose boat he was on when he was shot?"

"Well, t'wasn't may boat..." Parker hemmed.

Scott looked up, slightly startled as the family members slowly began to gather around them. Someone had overheard Reg's remark and, like lightning, had passed it on until it reached the ears of James and Sean. Parker glanced around, befuddled, while Scott silently prayed that the chauffeur would remember the cover story and wouldn't get too carried away in his recounting of the tale.

James came to the forefront of the group. "Am I t' understan' that ya were with our Peter at... at th' end?" he asked softly.

"Yus, sir. Ay wuz," Parker replied, looking appropriately mournful. "H'As Ay begun t' say, sir, t'wasn't may boat, t'was that o' milady, may h'em-ploy-er. Ay was summat surpraysed t' see Pete an' 'is cab, bringin' th' doctor bloke down t' meet wiv Milady. But Ay h'invited 'im h'aboard fer h'a quick nip. Un-for-chune-hat-lay, milady's boat h'is one o' them com-pew-teh controlled jobbies an' before we knew h'it, we were h'aowt t' sea."

His eyes narrowed and his face took on an angry expression. "Then them demmed pay-rates showed h'up. They wuz stealin' whatsoeffer they could find, an' wavin' guns h'around. They mayte 'ave 'urt milady, but Pete, Pete took them h'on. Shot h'at them wiv h'a gun first, then, when th' h'ammo ran h'aowt, turned t' fisticuffs. Gave their leader sech h'a beatin'! Ay wuz h'in there, too, wiv may 'Parker 'Aymaker' but they wuz too many fer h'us. The doc wuz trayin' t' protect milady, so 'e weren't much 'elp h'in th' fayte, but when Pete took h'a bullet through th' thaygh, 'e got busy tryin' t' save Pete's layfe."

Parker paused, and took a gulp of his Guinness. "Them demmed gits scuttled milady's yacht, an' we wuz close t' fallin' h'in th' drink wiv th' sharks, but milady managed t' get h'off h'a message t' them H'In-ter-nash-un-all Rescue blokes, an' they rescued h'us." He put on his mournful face again, and his voice dropped. "But 'twas too late fer Pete bay then."

The crowd of family members murmured as the tale came to a close, and James put a hand on Parker's shoulder. "Thank ya for tellin' us about our Peter's last moments. I had heard some a' the story on th' news, but t' hear it from the man who was there... well, it's good t' know that our Peter was a hero." He took Parker's empty pint and handed it to Sean. "Fill it up again, Sean. A tale like that works up a man's thirst."

"Thank ye," Parker said simply as the fresh pint was handed to him. James nodded and went back to talking with the cousins and old family friends, leaving Parker, Scott, and Pete's two RAF buddies alone. Scott breathed a noiseless sigh of relief, and clapped Parker on the shoulder.

"They'll be all day dissecting that," Reg said, his eyes on the knot of Riordan men.

"Dissecting it and passing it around," Terrance agreed. He glanced at Parker. "Be prepared to tell the tale more than once." Parker nodded as he drank his second pint.

The longer the wake went on, the merrier it got. Tongues were loosened and stories were told about Peter's childhood. The music itself got lighter and happier. Men came and went, family members who had come from afar or neighbors who knew Peter or his family and wanted to pay their respects drifted in and out. Toast after toast was made to the honored dead. Scott noticed that nothing was said about his friend's stint in the military; as he had surmised, that was a time in his life that the family was intent on denying. The two RAF friends who had come to pay their respects honored Peter once with a toast of their own, one innocuous enough to placate the natives, then they left quietly and with only a "Nice to have met you," to Scott and Parker. Scott doubted they'd be at the funeral.

As Terrance had predicted, Parker was asked to tell the tale of Peter's last day again and again. Every time he did, Scott held his breath, especially once "the black stuff" loosened Parker's already garrulous tongue. But the cracksman stuck to his story, adding only details of the actual fight, complete with actions and sometimes sound effects. He also stuck to his story of how he and Peter had become friends, adding that he had lost track of Peter when he was, "h'a guest o' 'Is Majesty's gov'ment". His listeners understood.

Scott made the rounds of the small groups, listening to the men as they talked about Peter's life, getting a clearer picture of who his friend was and what he meant to his family. He was particularly interested in finding out what would happen to Melissa and the children, but no one really had any answers, or at least, none that they were discussing in his hearing. He finally caught up with James and Sean, and James looked at him with a smile. "So, Scotty-me-lad, how have ya been faring? It's been a long time since ya darkened our door."

Scott returned the smile. "It has been a long time, hasn't it? But not so long for Pete and me. I used to visit him and Melissa when my dad would send me to the Unity City offices."

"So, ye're workin' for yer Da, are ya? God knows ye're smart enough. Ya always were the smarter a' the pair a' ya." He took Scott's glass and refilled it. After the first two pints, Scott had changed over to whiskey, and was feeling the effects of the mixture of the two. He sat down as the musicians took another break and gathered around Sean for refills on their drinks. The front door opened again, and a short, wiry man with silver at the temples of his dark red hair came in, followed by two taller men, each with the same color hair as the first, but without the silver. "Aidan!" James declared as he embraced the older of the men. "Everyone, if ya don't already know him, this is Melissa's da, Aidan O'Connor, and her brothers, Mike annnnnnd..." He paused as he tried to remember the other man's name. "Mike and Keagan."

Aidan O'Connor waved to the assembly and made his way over to Pete's coffin. He looked down at the dead man and clicked his tongue, then turned to James. "I'm sorry for your loss, Jimmy. He was a fine son and a good son-in-law, too. Melissa's beside herself. But what we can't figure is why Pete was out on the sea in the first place."

"Come over here, Aidan, and let me introduce ya t' Aloysius Parker, who was with our poor Peter at the end." James took the older man's arm and steered him to where the chauffeur, feeling the effects of his drink, was sitting in a comfortable armchair.

Scott stood by the coffin again, gazing down on his friend's still face. He was still having trouble processing what Parker had told him about Peter's last words. _What was it in Dad's dream that you thought worth giving your life for, Pete? I mean, for me and my brothers, it's the opportunity to see that others don't go through the pain and suffering that we did when Mom and Gramps died. But, what about **you**? What made you say "it was worth it"? _His fist clenched on top of the coffin, spattered now with whiskey and ale. _Don't worry about Melissa, Pete. I... We'll make sure she lacks for nothing... with the exception of you. Can't help her there, pal. _

With a sigh, he let go his fist and patted the top of the coffin, then turned his attention to Parker, who was regaling the O'Connors with the story of Peter's valiant end. He slowly moved across the room to stand on the outside the little circle of men who were listening to the saga, waiting for the story to finish so he could pull the chauffeur from his chair, and head back to their hotel. For him, at least, the wake was over.

xxxx

"What a mess," Alan said as he finally got a look at the Rolls Royce. He shook his head slowly at the damage. The carpet had already been stripped out and disposed of, and the seats had been removed. The metallic tang of blood still hung heavily in the air, especially inside the car. He ran a hand over the mottled paint, shaking his head some more, then looked under the hood to take a gander at the engine. "Hmm. Looks like the electrical system will need an overhaul, and we might have to strip down the paint and reapply it. I'll have to look at the specs for the chameleon paint; as I remember it was a bear to put on." He began to make notes in his PDA.

Moving around the car, he checked the canopy, which had a few spider web cracks where high velocity bullets had hit... but bounced off. "We'll have to rebuild the canopy from scratch. Damn, this is going to take time!" He glanced over at Brains, who was standing there with his arms folded. "Who supplies the polyhexane we use?"

"I-I'll give you a list of our, uh, parts providers, b-but I think this canopy is s-stronger than mere polyhexane," Brains remarked. "The s-supension will probably need an o-overhaul as well, uh, Alan."

"Right, even though the suspension is really the least of my worries," the blond replied. "Most of this is body and electrical work, but we'll give her an overall tune-up and see where we could upgrade some systems. Problem is, I really can't start work until Kenny gets here. I can put in orders for the leather that makes up the seat covers, and give the seat frames a thorough cleaning. I'm sure they're as covered with..." His words trailed off, then he shook himself a little and said, "Well, I can make a start on cleaning things up. See what can be done about the dents. Might have to..." He stopped mid-sentence as the emergency signal rang, echoing through the concrete bay. "Uh oh. Duty calls!"

Alan took the steps up to the lab two at a time and disappeared. Brains sighed, then turned to follow him. With Scott gone, there was every possibility he might be called upon to help with the rescue.


	24. Tunnel Vision

_Author's Note: _On a roll here, and with what I laughingly call a case of "verbal diahhrea". I promise I'll get back to _The White Winds_, but right now I'm striking while the iron is hot! Yea, verily! A _rescue_, and in my own old stomping grounds! My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading and being a sounding board.

**_Special Note: _**After writing (and posting) chapters 23 and 24, I remembered something from _Serendipity_ that would change the plotline quite significantly if I pursued it. I felt I should, so part of this chapter, and its corresponding bit in chapter 23, were altered to reflect my epiphany.

Now, on to my reviewer.

**Math Girl: **Things are moving along incrementally it seems. I hope you enjoy the rescue; it's one I've planned for a long time.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

Talk to whom you will in Boston, and you'll find that a majority of residents have strong opinions about the city's complex system of express tunnels. The earliest was the Sumner, built in 1934 when automobile traffic was just coming into its own. In 1961, a twin to the Sumner was laid down right beside it, spanning the narrowest point of Boston's Inner Harbor and connecting the North End and downtown to East Boston and Logan Airport. Named the Callahan, it took traffic from the city out to the airport, while the Sumner took traffic in the opposite direction. The Ted Williams Tunnel was added in the early part of the 21st century as part of a more comprehensive underground highway, but the purpose of that particular span was different; it offered a non-stop express route beneath the harbor's water from I-93 and the South End to the airport. The two older spans were still deemed just as necessary to Boston's convoluted traffic grid as their newer counterpart. 

Fast forward 100-plus years, and both North End tunnels are showing their age. Leaks are almost inevitable, and it's become a common thing for motorists to skim through inches worth of sea water on their way to or from Logan. There have been floodings from time to time, and the occasional accident as motorists would hydroplane while going too fast and skid into other cars going in the same direction. Even an occasional jack-knifed truck would snarl up the traffic behind it, leaving drivers honking their horns and either shouting or muttering expletives until the local rescue units could get in and remove the obstruction. By 2068, the new Sumner is already under construction and plans have been laid to replace the Callahan as well, but until at least the Sumner is complete, the old tunnels remain open to traffic.

On this occasion, however, a concatenation of circumstances created a situation almost impossible for the local crews to deal with. A tanker truck filled with ethanol, the driver on his way to fueling depots in East Boston, had to pass through the Callahan tunnel. A layer of sea water, leaked down the tile walls through the roof of the tunnel, caused the truck to hydroplane and jack-knife, closing off most lanes of traffic. A church bus, headed out to the airport with a group of would-be missionaries, ended up filling in the gap left by the end of the truck as it, too, hydroplaned and slammed up against the tanker's side. Then another tanker, filled with alsterene, skidded and jack-knifed in the driver's futile attempt to stop. It smashed into the bus, warping the walls and making the emergency exits on the sides of the bus unusable and egress from the transport nearly impossible. The impact of the vehicles on the concrete sides of the tunnel proved to be too much for the old concrete, and a leaky spot widened, bringing in water from the harbor channel above. Lights went out, and exhaust fans ceased to work.

The ethanol tanker driver was able to get out; but not so the driver of the alsterene truck. His driver and passenger doors had crumpled as the side of the cab hit the wall and the bus and as other cars and smaller trucks collided with the cab. The emergency exits at the top of the bus were still available, but the top of the transport was wet and slick from the incoming water. Vehicles farther back managed to keep from adding to the chaos, but they couldn't turn around and get out of the tunnel. Instead, their drivers abandoned their rides and walked back out, informing others of the situation as they went. And to add insult to injury, the tankers began to leak their cargoes all over the road and into the rising water.

Fire departments from East Boston and Logan International Airport converged on the scene. They quickly closed off the Sumner tunnel as well as the Callahan and a rescue truck ventured into the gaping darkness, going against what would have been the traffic flow. It was followed by two heavy duty tow trucks. Chains were put around the ethanol tanker and an attempt was made to move it. But it was too solidly imbedded into the concrete walls to be moved with any kind of safety, and the danger of fire from the chemicals made cutting the truck apart impossible.

"We could send divers in under the tanker, but they'd be of little use. There's no way that we could haul that tanker away to get to the bus, and no way to get the bus passengers out," was the verdict from the rescue and tow truck drivers.

"It will take a lot of time to reach them from the other side, and the water_ is _rising," the State Police representative added. "We're clearing an area at the other side of the tunnel for drivers to back up and pull out their cars, but a lot of drivers have already abandoned their vehicles, so those will have to be towed out. The only thing we could do to buy us time is to pump the water out and keep it from engulfing the people still in the tunnel."

The HAZMAT expert said, "But there's the danger from the mixture of seawater, ethanol, and alsterene. No one's ever had to deal with it before and we can't predict what it will do."

The Fire Chief listened to all recommendations, and then made one of his own. "The only people with heavy enough equipment to pull that tanker free and get those people out are the folks of International Rescue. We need to call them in."

xxxx

"Th-Thunderbird Five from Rho," Brains called into his new hands free unit. He was in the lab on Thunderbird Two, working on something to neutralize the "chemical soup" as Jeff had called it. "Is it, uh, too much to h-hope that there's no OD60 in the, uh, h-harbor's water?"

John's face showed up in a small window on the inside of Brains's visor. He shook his head. "So far the locals say that there's no OD60 present or if there is, it's in such a small amount as to be negligible. The problem they're having is with the ethanol, the alsterene, and the salt water. The local HAZMAT teams are trying to pump out the tunnel but the stuff is so caustic that it's eating through their gear. The chemistry guys at MIT are working with the HAZMAT crew to see if they can find a way to neutralize the stuff."

"G-Good. At least we d-don't have to worry about the, uh, explosive side effects of a-alsterene and OD60. There's no l-leaking the other way?"

"No, the water hasn't risen high enough to do that."

Brains nodded, then remembered that John couldn't see him._ A side effect of the visors. I'm not sure we can put a camera in them that would show the operative's face. It may be that we'll have to abandon the idea of seeing the operative while they're working unless they are in their vehicle. _He lifted another test tube that held a mix of ethanol and alsterene and sea water taken from around the island. _I know that this won't be as accurate as it could be since I don't have samples of the harbor water. But I've got to do something. And this is the best I have to work with. _

Back in pod four, Gordon was making some adjustments to his Thunderbird. Tin-Tin, sent along as a second diver, was helping him.

"Okay, Tin-Tin; let 'er rip!"

Tin-Tin pushed a lever forward and a thick tube emerged from the nose of the mini-sub in the spot where the missile launcher usually rested. She pressed a button, and a jet of water shot forward, fed by a tank that was externally linked to the starboard turbine water intake. "Looks good, Gordon," she called, sticking her head out the side hatch.

"Yeah. We can use the water intakes to fuel the high pressure jet when we need it. Now, switch it over to the cement."

Tin-Tin hopped back in, and flipped a switch, then pressed the button. A stream of foam shot out, piling up quickly against the pod door. Gordon slashed down with his hand and Tin-Tin let go of the button.

"Hmm, not quite enough thrust there," Gordon said thoughtfully. "Unfortunately, we don't have time to fine tune it. We'll just have to get closer when we apply the cement." He grabbed a shovel and started scraping the thick liquid off the door. "Good thing this stuff expands in salt water," he commented. "We won't have to use as much to seal those leaks."

"Right." Tin-Tin flipped the switch again and let the water stream out again. Both the pressure of the water and the small amount of solvent that it held cleaned the inside of the tube. "How are we going to get the tube cleared after we use the concrete?" she asked.

Gordon took his last shovel load, and scraped it off into the waste canister. "We'll have to do that when we get back. Set up the water jet just like we have here."

"Ah, I see," she replied. She upped the pressure level on the water spray and used it to clean the remaining cement from the door.

"Thunderbird Four from Thunderbird Two," Virgil's voice came over the cockpit speaker. "ETA to Danger Zone, ten minutes. Make sure all equipment is secure and prepared for pod drop."

"F-A-B," Tin-Tin answered. She stepped out and began to break down the link to the barrel of water and solvent. "ETA to the Danger Zone, ten minutes," she announced to Gordon.

"I heard the man." He glanced around to see that the other pieces of equipment that had been crammed into his pod, the DOMO and one of the recovery vehicles, were secure. "Here, I'll store the barrel. Do we have enough of the concrete stowed aboard?" he asked.

Tin-Tin slipped back into the cockpit and opened the hatch between that area and the diving airlock. She peered in, counting up five squat plastic barrels. One barrel was already set up, tubes snaking into a gap in the airlock floor where they linked to the feed for the temporary water jet. "Almost five full barrels," she called. "Do you think that will be enough?"

"It'll have to be, won't it?" Gordon said, wiping his hands on a rag. "Let's get ready for launch."

xxxx

In East Boston, Alan had set up Mobile Control near the exit from the Callahan and was liaising with the various groups working on the problem. He wore a bright yellow HAZMAT suit over his uniform, with the hood pulled back, and a baseball style cap on his head. His face was covered from eyebrows to just below his nose by the newly upgraded visor, the hands free communicator was plugged into the visor's circuitry and stuck in his ear. He had left his sash in Thunderbird One, which was under military guard on a side street nearby. He had been there for quite some time, waiting for Thunderbird Two to arrive.

The HAZMAT chief came over and gave him a weary smile. "Your idea about laying rigid PVC pipe down to pump out the liquid is working. The lines are lasting longer than the fire hose was and the water levels are dropping. Thanks!"

"You're welcome. Phase two of our plan is coming in just a few minutes," Alan explained. "I'm going to need to shut this down for a bit and get in there to take a look."

"We can get you down there in one of the fire trucks," the HAZMAT leader suggested.

"That would be great. I'll take care of this and pick up some equipment I need."

The HAZMAT chief nodded, and started speaking into her radio. Alan transferred control of the command center to something that looked like a wide remote control, then shut down the unit, closing it up and locking it. Then he ran back to Thunderbird One, giving the military presence there a quick salute, and climbed up into the cockpit. He found what he was looking for in a crate that was securely fastened to the wall behind the pilot's chair. It was an air gun, a rifle really, with a single barrel as wide around as his fist. Included in the box were six shells, made of a relatively brittle plastic and holding a sticky gallium compound that would spread over its target. The gallium's low radioactive profile was detectable at short range from all International Rescue craft except Thunderbird Five. It was part of the plan for him to mark where the tunnel leaks were from the inside so that Gordon could hopefully seal them from the outside.

He also grabbed his personal light, his hard hat with the light on it, and the oxygen tanks he would need to get in there. The overhead lights were still out, but they had managed to get the big ventilation fans running. Everyone hoped it was enough to keep the people trapped inside from choking on any fumes. So far, according to the bus driver and other trapped motorists with whom they still had radio or cell phone contact, things seemed stable. But Alan knew, as all the rescue workers did, how quickly a "stable" situation could deteriorate.

He ran back to the tunnel mouth, where a hose truck was waiting to take him into the darkened passage. Climbing aboard, he greeted the similarly dressed fireman who was driving the truck, then began to shrug himself into the air tanks' harness. The oxygen mask fit over his nose and mouth and had been upgraded so that the boom mike would still pick up his words. With the visor, it looked like he had on a full face mask. Only when he had completed his preparations did he give a thumbs up signal for the fireman to release the brake and advance into the Callahan.

xxxx

Addison was still feeling rather rattled by her interview with the detectives. _Should I have given them Penelope's name? I feel like I have betrayed her somehow... but it seems as if she has lied to me and to everyone else about her whereabouts that night. I thought she was still on the side of the angels, but can I be sure? _

She paced up and down in her office as her thoughts went around in circles. _They asked me if I knew where she was and I said I didn't know. That was true enough, but I know she's not at home either. They won't find her at Foxleyheath and they may be back, asking more questions. _She stopped to stand in front of the large, many-paned window, looking out at the setting sun._ This is not helping. I must do something... but what? Should I warn her? _Turning, she looked at her vidphone, staring at it for what seemed to be a long moment as she wrestled with what to do. Then she pressed her lips together and frowned, letting out a huff of breath. She walked over to her desk and sat down, pulling out her PDA and dialing Penelope's satellite phone number.

The phone rang and rang, then there was a pause and the vidphone's screen had the words, "Voice Only." Penelope's smooth, cultured tones sounded in her ear. "This is Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward. You have reached my voice mail. I am so very sorry that I am not available to take your call. Please, do leave your name and a number where I may reach you, and I shall endeavor to phone back at the earliest opportunity."

Addison considered her response, then sighed heavily, and disconnected the call.

xxxx

"Epsilon, how are things in Boston?"

John checked his data pad. "Going well, it seems, Commander. Thunderbird Four has been clearing the silt off the tunnel with the high-powered jet so they can get down to the surface on the outside and find those leaks. Rho reports progress in finding a neutralizing agent for the chemical spill, and Sigma says that with the fluid levels down, the locals are putting a team of EMTs in HAZMAT gear over the top of the ethanol tanker to assess how many injured the hospitals can expect. He also reports that Delta is standing by with the Recovery vehicle. It's going to be a bear getting those trucks and the bus out; the ethanol/alsterene combination has eaten away at the tires."

Indeed, things seemed to be going well, if moving slowly. The nearby ethanol distributor was rushing, via helijet, a neutralizing agent in a quantity that would deal with the cargo of the tank truck. The alsterene people, however, had yet to do the same, it being the wee hours in the morning in Morocco, where the manufacturer's home offices were. With alsterene being such a relatively new product, any information on it was given on a "need to know" basis by a paranoid corporate headquarters. Alan was ready to either jump into Thunderbird One himself or send Virgil out in the rocket plane to fetch whatever was needed and rush back to Boston with it. In the meantime, chemical manufacturers to the west were scrambling to find out what would neutralize it, pulling together in an unprecedented way to aid the folks in the Bay State.

_I'm all for industrial secrets, but not when it comes to neutralizing hazardous materials,_ Alan groused to himself, frowning. _I'm surprised that the World Government hasn't cracked down on this sort of thing. _Then his face cleared, and he snapped his fingers. "Thunderbird Five and Base from Mobile Control. Do you read?"

"Go ahead, Mobile Control," John's voice came back. Overlaying the very end of his brother's statement came the communication from his father, "Base here, go ahead, Sigma."

"We're still looking for the neutralizing compound for alsterene. Can you get onto our agents in Unity City and see if the World Government has it on file? And get onto the folks in Morocco to have them scare up the manufacturers? Pound on their doors or something!"

"F-A-B, Mobile Control," Jeff said from his command post. "I'll get in touch with our agents in Morocco right away."

"And I can think of a Unity City agent or two who might know it, or have access to it," John added. "Thunderbird Five standing by."

Alan smiled. It was the best news he'd had in an hour.

xxxx

In Boston's famous harbor, Gordon was nearly finished removing the layer of silt that covered a section of the tube that was the Callahan tunnel. The process had made the already murky waters nearly impenetrable to human vision, but he was working with his advanced sonar and with the radiation detectors that showed him where to locate the gallium compound that Alan had applied. Tin-Tin gave him readings on that front, keeping him abreast of how far to the port or starboard he should move. The result was a jagged trench, about two meters wide, through which the currently problematic series of leaks ran.

"There, done," Gordon declared as he cleared the final bit of silt away. "Mobile Control from Thunderbird Four. The leakage area has been cleared and I am starting in with the cement."

"F-A-B," Alan replied. Just then, the HAZMAT crew chief, whose name was Tyneika, came up to him.

"My crew in the tunnel says that the leakage from the walls has increased. Is this your doing?"

"Yes, unfortunately," Alan admitted. "Just keep pumping. All the leakage should slow or stop completely very soon."

"How soon?"

"Let me find out. Thunderbird Four from Mobile Control, what's your ETA on job completion?"

Tin-Tin's voice came back to him, and her picture appeared on the inside of his visor. "Mobile Control from Thunderbird Four. Omicron reports our ETA is thirty to forty minutes... if we're not interrupted again."

Alan rolled his eyes behind the visor. "F-A-B, Thunderbird Four." He glanced over at Tyneika. "Thirty to forty minutes, barring unforeseen circumstances." She nodded, and passed the word along for the crews who were manning the pumps.

xxxx

In Thunderbird Five, John opened a direct communication link to Brigitte. _It's a shot in the dark, but I think she's worked with HAZMAT before. This may be something she's enountered. I only hope she's not on duty._

She wasn't, but she was getting ready to go to work when she heard the low-pitched beeping. Pulling her button down shirt on over her sleeveless t-shirt, she pressed a sequence of keys on her computer's keyboard and the IR logo came up on a blue field. Two empty slots where she could put her agent number and a password were at the bottom of the screen. She put on a headphone/microphone set up, filled in both slots, and the screen came to life. Her eyes widened in pleased surprise, and she smiled widely. "Jo... uh, Operative Five! How nice to see you!"

"And to see you, Agent 87." John smiled back. He admired what he saw; the tight tank t-shirt showed off Brigitte's natural endowments very well. He stifled a contented sigh, then got down to business. "No more time for pleasantries, I'm afraid. I'm calling to see if you might know what would neutralize alsterene. I thought perhaps you had come across it in your day job."

She frowned slightly as she concentrated. "Alsterene... hmm. No, I'm afraid I haven't," she replied regretfully, shaking her head. Then her frown cleared and she brightened. "But I know someone who_ would _know. What he does _not _know about hazardous materials could fit on a..." She hesitated, searching for an appropriate word. "A... thumbnail. Let me call him and ask."

"F-A-B. Call as a representative of International Rescue and use 'voice only'," John cautioned.

She glanced up at the ceiling while shaking her head. "Do not worry. I am aware of the protocol."

"Oh, oohkay," he replied, his cheeks turning pink with a touch of embarrassment.

She turned from the screen, and dialed a number she knew by heart, selecting "voice only" and taking a deep breath as the phone was picked up at the other end. She did not remove the headset as she spoke to whoever she was calling.

"Hello, who is this?" an older man's voice asked gruffly.

John was startled to hear her voice become very deep, very breathy and, he thought, very sexy. "Joost Von Der Veen? I represent International Rescue."

"International Rescue? Is this some kind of joke?"

"No, sir. It is not. I understand that you are well-known for your knowledge of hazardous materials."

"Who told you that?" the man asked, sounding interested in spite of himself.

"An operative of ours. I cannot give a name."

The man sighed. "Okay. So? What do you want?"

"We are looking for a substance that would neutralize the chemical, alsterene."

John didn't know about this Joost guy, but he was feeling warm just listening to Brigitte. It didn't matter that she was talking about alsterene; her altered voice was certainly provocative.

"Alsterene, you say? Let me think." There was a space of about sixty to ninety seconds where Joost either consulted his memory or some kind of book. "Yes, now I remember. Got a pencil, darling?"

"I do." Just those two words made John huff out a breathy, "Whew!"

"Slower, Mr. Von der Veen. Slower," Brigitte cautioned as the man began to rattle off a complex string of letters and numbers. John, who could hear it as well as she could, jotted them down the first time through, typing them quickly into his console, and going over them as the man repeated the formula to Brigitte. He waved to catch her eye and asked, "How much to neutralize a 9,500 liter tank?"

She nodded at him and then relayed the question. "How much of this substance would it take to neutralize a 9500 liter tank?"

"Oh, about 50 liters, I should say."

John gave her a thumbs up, then downloaded the chemical formula and the amount needed to Alan at Mobile Control.

"Is there any thing else we should know about this chemical? Are there any special instructions for its use or storage?" she asked her expert.

"Just don't store it in plastic. Use glass or stainless steel," was the answer. John made that notation and downloaded it as well.

"Thank you _very _much, Mr. Von der Veen," Brigitte breathed. "You have been a _very _great help."

"Is this _really _International Rescue?" he asked, sounding skeptical.

"Yes, Mr. Von der Veen, it is. Have a good evening." And with that, Brigitte disconnected the call. She turned to John and smiled sweetly. "See? I know the protocol."

"I'll say!" John remarked admiringly. One eyebrow raised in a question. "Who was that guy, anyway?"

"The head of arson investigations for the Unity City Fire department. I have met him more than once in my duties," she explained.

"I'm glad you had the resource. Everyone else has been banging their heads against this one. I've downloaded the details to Mobile Control and they'll take it from here. Thank you very much, Agent 87, for your help."

"F-A-B, Operative Five. I received your _other_ communication. I will respond soon."

"Looking forward to it," he replied warmly. "Operative Five out." He sat back in his chair and breathed deeply for a moment. "This may prove to be a very interesting friendship."

Brigitte sighed and glanced at the clock. "Oh no!" Quickly buttoning up her shirt, she tucked it into her dark slacks and, grabbing her jacket, ran out the door to head for work.

xxxx

"Excellent!" Tyneika said as Alan printed out the chemical string for her. "We'll get our chemists working on this right away. Maybe if we can neutralize both separately, we can just pump out what's already mixed and seal the leaks, then move the trucks." She hurried off to give this to the appropriate people.

The Fire Chief, who had been overseeing the combined efforts of the Boston crews, now approached. "We have a count of victims. So far, twelve in need of immediate attention, another twenty who have moderate injuries, thirty with minor injuries, and... fourteen fatalities."

Alan didn't speak for a moment. Then he turned to the Chief, his eyes hidden behind the visor, "Well, sir, let's get those dozen seriously injured people out, and fast."

"My thought exactly, young man. How are we doing on the leak front?"

"I was about to get an update from our people out there." Alan turned to the command unit. "Thunderbird Four from Mobile Control, status report."

Tin-Tin answered again, "Another three meters to go, Mobile Control. Ten to fifteen minutes."

"F-A-B, Thunderbird Four. Keep up the good work!"

The Fire Chief, who had made a similar request of the people he had in the tunnel, turned back to Alan. "My spotters report that the water leaks have been drastically reduced. Now we just have the leaking tankers to worry about, and really only the one carrying the alsterene, since the ethanol has been dealt with." He took in a deep breath. "Do you think we could move that first tanker?"

Alan shook his head. "Alsterene can be very volatile. I'd rather wait for the neutralizing agent before trying to move the ethanol tanker. Don't want a stray spark to cause a conflagration. How are things going on the other side? Towing out the abandoned vehicles?"

"Slowly. We had to suspend that operation at one point because of the HAZMAT danger. That chemical soup managed to get up far enough to take out the tires on several cars, and the wreckers themselves were in danger of having the same thing happen. But we're working on it again, using full bed wreckers. Still we can only get two or three wreckers in there at one time..." He was interrupted by a squawk from his radio. "Ennis here. What's the problem?" He listened for a moment, and then said, "Back your trucks up into it and see if you can shore it up! The last thing we need is for the tanker to go over and the bus with it!"

Alan didn't hesitate or even ask permission. "Thunderbird Two from Mobile Control. We need the DOMO here, stat!"

"F-A-B!" said Virgil._ Finally! _This was the first time in a long time that he had not been in the thick of things, and truthfully, he was bored. Everything had been waiting on something or someone else, a situation that he had found frustrating. To spare Alan his agitated state, he had pulled the recovery vehicle into position near the tunnel until it could be used, then grabbed Thunderbird One's hoverbike to take him back to Two, where he activated the camera fogger and waited. At one point, he made a trip to get a sample of water from the harbor so Brains could use it as he worked on the elusive formula for neutralizing the caustic result of the leaks. Otherwise, he had been in the pod, checking over the DOMO, making sure everything was clean and the area was clear for Thunderbird Four's return.

He had found the waste barrel that Gordon had used and cleaned up around it, then scraped the door free of whatever small bits of cement he could find. But the time still weighed heavily on him and so he did something he very rarely did on rescues; he pulled out a small pad and made some sketches. From a spot just inside the pod's smaller door, he sketched portions of the crowd that had gathered around, complete with the military reservists that had been called out to protect the Thunderbirds. He smiled when he remembered who had arranged for the security: Agent 22, also known as Angela, an old friend of his from Denver, now a professor at Harvard and sometime organist at its Minda de Gunzberg Center for European Studies.

The crowd seemed to be like any other crowd, restive, waiting for something to happen, waiting for International Rescue to pull the proverbial rabbit out of a hat as they had so many times before. Their faces sometimes blurred together, but now and again he could pick out someone who looked unique, and whose face intrigued him enough to put pencil to paper. He scanned along the people and his eyes suddenly stopped, attracted to a woman whose golden hair set her apart from the crowd around her. He glanced at her once or twice, trying to capture her expression. But when he felt the drawing was finished and looked down, Lady Penelope gazed back up at him. He sighed, and put his sketch pad away.

At last Alan had called him into action. He lowered the door to the pod with his handprint, then transferred control to a remote device. Leaping into the DOMO's cab, he soon had the unwieldy vehicle in motion, slowing it as he cleared the pod's ramp, reaching back to close the door, then flooring it in an effort to get to the tunnel as quickly as possible. A cheer went up as he left the pod, and he almost wished for a moment for the sound of squealing tires as he took off. The caterpillar treads made that rather impossible, and also made his forward movement slower than he would have liked. Turning sharp corners on the cleared streets was also more difficult, yet his experience with the DOMO gave him that intuitive knowledge of when to slow down or speed up.

At last the tunnel entrance was in sight. "Okay, Alan. Time for instructions," he muttered, stopping to take the time to finish his HAZMAT preparations. "Mobile Control from DOMO; awaiting instructions."

"DOMO from Mobile Control. Delta, take the left hand tunnel. The jack-knifed ethanol tanker needs to be shored up. The men in there are using their trucks to do that, but the DOMO can handle it better," Alan replied.

"F-A-B." Activating his air tanks and lowering the DOMO's arms, he rolled the vehicle into the darkness.

xxxx

Ciprian yawned, stretched, and rubbed his eyes. He was going through the senator's office phone logs, emailed to him while he was out tracking down the lady herself. It was late, and he was more than ready to go home. He groaned slightly when his vidphone rang. "Badeau here."

"C, me mate, it's Trish. I got some news, so I do."

Ciprian sat back in his office chair, looking at the dark-haired woman from a more comfortable position. "So, what do you have, Trish?"

Patricia smiled at him. "A mate a' mine in London, Bryce Southern, found out who that wig belonged to. A singer name a' Wanda Lamour. He tracked down her agent, so he did, one Maxie Gold. Mr. Gold said he only booked the woman once, at Paradise Peaks, then she dropped out a' sight. Gave me mate a press photo, which Bryce emailed to me. I figure that the wig must a' been a back up or something 'cause Lamour's hair ain't black, it's brown, so it is."

"So, we have a singer's surplus wig on a false employee of de British Prime Minister, visiting de Minister of Security and disappearing during a terrorist attack. And we have a blonde who no one seems to have seen dere as well." Ciprian shook his head. "Dis gets stranger and stranger wit every new piece of evidence."

"Ya know what I think, C ol' mate? I think that the blonde used the wig to cover up and impersonate St. Clair, so I do. But the lack a' DNA match is what puzzles me, so it does."

"Here is a question. Did your friend find a DNA sample for dis Wanda Lamour? Perhaps if dere is one..."

"C, me mate, that's a good idea, so it is. I'll ask. In the meanwhile, me mates are looking for this Lady Creighton-Ward. Bryce says he knows her personally and he's going out to her estate in the morning. Hold a second..." Trish looked off screen so someone who handed her a small disk. Ciprian could see her motions as she popped the disk into the drive, and frown as she accessed it. Her eyes widened a bit and she remarked, "Now this is interestin', so it is."

He sat up, coming close to the screen. "Trish? What is it?"

She turned her eyes back to her partner. "You're not gonna believe this, C. There were three sets a' prints on the compact. One was a' Fernando Ramirez, secretary to His Excellency. And the other two were unidentified." She tapped her desk with a short fingernail. "Now, one mystery set a' fingerprints, I can understand, so I can, but two? Don't you think one should belong to His Excellency himself?"

Ciprian shrugged. "Perhaps. Perhaps someone besides Ramirez and de owner handled it."

"Actually, C me mate, someone did. His Excellency himself handed it to me. I was wearing gloves, so I was, but he..." Patricia frowned. "Why weren't his fingerprints identified?"

The Unity City dectective sighed. "De furter into dis case we get, de more tangled it becomes."

Patricia nodded in agreement. "Ya got that right, that ya do!"


	25. Partings

_Author's Note: _Still on a roll here, and striking while the iron is hot! We say a final farewell to Peter, and the rescue is wrapped up. And, sorry to all you Virgil fangirls, but he's being an "idiot child" again. ;) My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading, to FrankieC for a certain idea about the "idiot child", and to Bluegrass for her information on Irish funerary customs. If there's something wrong in Pete's funeral and burial, _mea culpa_.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Fiona Belegant: **Thanks for the compliments on the story, and for John and Brigitte. Will Virgil tell Lady P? Most likely. Not in this chapter though.

**FrankieC:** Thanks for the good words on the rescue. I love Boston, too, as long as I don't have to drive in it! LOL! Very interesting on that other tunnel catastrophe. And yeah, it's nice to have a "normal, successful rescue"... even though it wasn't finished when the chapter ended. You never know; I might decide to blow up the tunnel with Virgil in it! ;) Thanks, too, on the good words about Virgil's softer side. I figure, if he's going to be bored, he's got to draw. Believe me, I see enough of it going on around here:)

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

Scott woke, bleary-eyed, and looked around without getting off his stomach. There was this ringing in his ear... and he groaned as he realized it was the ringing of the vidphone in his hotel bedroom. He rolled over with another groan and levered himself out of bed, stretching and scratching his lower back as he did so. He hit a button on the vidphone and heard a perky, feminine recording say, "Good morning! This is your requested wake up call! Please feel free to join us in the lobby for our complimentary continental breakfast!" He disconnected the call, shaking his head gingerly. It was pounding, and his mouth felt fuzzy. _A little too much of the black stuff, I'd say, _he thought. _Maybe a shower will help clear away the cobwebs._

By the time he was showered and dressed, there was a discreet knock on the door. "Mr. Scott?"

"Come in!" he called as he tied his necktie and frowned at his reflection in the mirror. He leaned over carefully, and combed through the hair over his temples. _A... gray hair? Where the hell did **that** come from?_

Parker opened the door and, covering his mouth with a fist, cleared his throat. "Beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Scott, but breakfast h'is served."

"Be there in a minute, Parker," Scott replied. When the door closed again, Scott fingered through his dark waves again to find the annoying hair and tried to yank it out with his fingers_. I'll need tweezers to get rid of that sucker,_ he realized with a sigh. He went through the personal effects he had tossed carelessly on the dresser, and stared for a moment at one of his own business cards with a phone number written on the reverse side. He blinked at it, frowning slightly, trying to place who the number belonged to and where it had come from, then his face cleared. _Oh, yeah. Now I remember. My new satellite phone number, the one I ordered when we were on layover in L.A. The phone itself will be ready for pick up when we stop back there for Kenny. Just didn't have time to get it on the way over. _He stuck the card in his wallet, slipped the wallet into the back pocket of his dress slacks, and went out into the suite's sitting room.

Parker was already there, tending to a room service cart. As Scott appeared, he poured a cup of coffee, and set it down on the small dining table. Scott sat down, and the butler offered the cream, which was waved away, and the sugar, which was taken and a lump added to the cup. "What would ye like fer breakfast, sir?" Parker asked. "We 'ave some nice shirred h'eggs 'ere, wit' h'a rasher o' bacon. 'Tis h'almost h'a proper fry-h'up."

"Dish me up a little of everything, Parker." Scott had bit back his automatic reaction, which would be to tell Parker to sit down and let him serve himself. It was the butler-cum-chauffeur's habit to serve, and the eldest Tracy son decided to let him. He and his brothers were used to a certain amount of pampering at home from Kyrano and Grandma, but their father had brought them up to be as self-sufficient as possible. He sipped his coffee and took a bite of the eggs from the plate Parker placed before him. "You seem very... uh... cheerful today, Parker."

"Oh yus, sir!" Parker replied with a slight smile. "Ay enjoy th' Guinness, Mr. Scott, but me h'own preference h'is fer Ol' Speckled, which Ay may say h'is h'a mayte stronger."

Scott groaned a bit. "I'm glad one of us is feeling good this morning, Parker. You can drive us to the funeral."

"Very good, Mr. Scott," the chauffeur replied.

xxxx

"I got the DOMO down to the end of the bus that was stretched beyond the ethanol tanker and held it upright when Alan used the recovery vehicle to pull the tanker out," Virgil reported. "Then the EMTs and other local rescue units got to the bus passengers, and once it was clear, we pulled that out, too. After that, it was all in the hands of the locals."

The weary group was sitting around the dining room table, debriefing. They had showered and changed and were eating dinner while recounting the events of the rescue. John was part of the discussion via the link to Thunderbird Five, which Jeff had connected to his laptop and brought down to the meal. While they ate, he ate, though it was a cryofrozen portion set apart by Kyrano from a previous meal. Because the link was functioning, Jeff cautioned them again to use code names.

"This was the kind of rescue I like," Gordon said. "Everything went smoothly and none of us got hurt."

"Yeah, but it was a lot of 'hurry up and wait', if you know what I mean," Virgil commented, spearing a bite of asparagus. "I like to be in the thick of things as soon as possible."

"Did you find that neutralizing agent for the ethanol/alsterene mixture, Rho?" Jeff asked, wiping his mouth.

"Y-Yes, C-Commander," the scientist said. "I f-found it."

"Yeah, but too late to do any good," Alan remarked, shaking his head. "By the time he had put the pieces together, we had already taken care of the two tankers individually."

"N-Not at all, uh, Sigma," Brains replied coolly, sipping his wine. "There was a lot of that, uh, c-compound pumped out before we, uh, got there, and a lot more was generated before we m-managed to seal the tunnel leaks and render the individual chemicals, uh, ineffective. All of that needs to be n-neutralized too, you know."

"Epsilon, where did you get the chemical formula for neutralizing the alsterene?" Jeff asked, trying to turn the subject elsewhere. "Our agents had a hard time getting the manufacturer to cooperate."

"Uh, Agent 87 had connections," John said, coloring a bit. "She found it for me."

"Eighty-seven?" Virgil's forehead wrinkled for just a moment in concentration, then his face cleared. "Oh, Agent Eighty-_seven_! How_ is _she, Epsilon? Still as beautiful as ever?" he teased, tipping John a broad wink.

Jeff glanced from one son to the other, not missing the grin on Gordon's face either. He shot a questioning look at John, who colored even more. "Is there something I should know about here, Epsilon?"

"I, uh, I'll tell you later, Commander," the space monitored stammered. "In private."

"Yes, you will," Jeff said firmly, making sure his son knew that he wasn't going to let the matter drop. He looked around the table, catching the eye of each and every person. "Anything else about the rescue to discuss? Any maintenance problems?"

Those seated around the table shook their heads. Jeff nodded. "Then I have one announcement to make. A very important one."

The diners sat up straighter and directed their attention to the head of the table. Jeff took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and began. "In the wake of Agent 53's death, I've taken a good hard look at our agents network. It has been very helpful to us; this latest rescue is just one in a long string of rescues in which our outside operatives have come through in a pinch. But... it has come to my attention that some of what we... what I'm asking them to do is too difficult, or too dangerous for them to handle. So, I have sent out a letter, one telling about Agent 53's demise and basically giving an opportunity for anyone who, in the light of that tragedy, would like to step out of the network to do so. I have also given those who would like to limit their participation to intelligence gathering an opportunity to say so. A copy of this letter is in each of your email boxes on the official server."

He sighed heavily. "I plan, in the next few weeks, to sit down with each of you and discuss the operatives who you have personally recommended and who wish to remain, with an eye to determining what they are and are not capable of vis-a-vis our operations. Please clear some time in your schedules for this; it will be a rather intensive process."

The diners glanced at each other, then Virgil asked, "Have you heard back from any of our agents? And how many are going to leave?"

Jeff smiled slightly. "Out of our 207 agents, I have heard back from roughly eighty. So far, only three have asked to stop their association with us and eight have asked to limit their duties. The rest have been gratifyingly positive in their response." His conversation with Jeremiah came to mind, and he couldn't help but chuckle. "In fact, I've gotten an earful from a few who have actually called to give me holy hell for even sending the letter and making the offer."

The others around the table echoed his laugh, then grew quiet again, as Jeff continued, "I expect to hear from more of our agents in the days to come. I gave them a three-week time frame for answering."

"Will we be hearing from those who we've recommended but who have decided to opt out?" Tin-Tin asked.

"I hope so," Jeff replied. "And I hope you will not hold it against them for making this decision. For some of them, it will be a difficult one to make."

"Will you tell us who has decided not to continue?" Tin-Tin pressed. "In case we don't hear from them personally."

Jeff gazed at each member of the family in turn, then nodded. "When we discuss who is staying and what role they will be able to play in our network. I don't want any of you to be uninformed." He looked around the table again. "Any other questions?"

"Does Alpha know?" Alan asked.

"Some of it. I will bring him up to speed on his return. Anything else?"

There was a general shaking of heads, and a small chorus of, "No", and, "I don't think so". Jeff smiled, and said, "Then this debriefing is over." He signaled Kyrano, who refilled his coffee, then picked it up. "Epsilon, I'm transferring the link back up to my desk. I'll see you there in a few minutes."

"Yes, sir," John said with a sigh.

Jeff tapped a couple of keys and the picture winked out. "If anyone needs me, I'll be in the lounge," he announced. Then he left, taking his coffee with him.

Virgil signaled to Kyrano, and the retainer came around to where he sat, coffee carafe in hand. "Yes, Mr. Virgil?"

"Where is Lady Penelope? I've noticed she's not been taking meals with the family."

Kyrano paused to pour some fresh coffee into Virgil's cup. "Lady Penelope has asked for a tray to be brought to the guest room for each meal."

The younger man frowned. "Why is she shutting herself off like this? I know she's very upset about Peter's death, but to go into seclusion..."

"She wrestles with a great many things, Mr. Virgil," the retainer said softly. "I have seen her in my garden in the mornings and walking on the beach in the afternoons." He sighed. "She will not find the answers she seeks until she decides what is really most important to her."

Virgil gave Kyrano a keen glance. "What do you mean?"

"She is weighing her life as it is, and must decide what it is going to be," the old man said, taking Virgil's plate. And with that, he headed back to the kitchen, leaving a thoughtful young man behind him.

xxxx

Jeff sat down at his desk. He transferred the link to the lounge, and activated John's portrait. "Thunderbird Five from base. Do you read me?"

John's face, still pink and now a touch apprehensive, appeared. "I read you five by five, Commander."

The commander didn't waste any time. He leaned back in his chair, stylus in hand, and asked bluntly, "What's this about Agent 87?"

"Well, uh, you see," John hemmed, nervously using his hands to make his point. "We, uh, kinda hit it off during that, uh, operation in the Caribbean and, uh, agreed to pursue a... a friendship."

"Ah, I see," Jeff said sagely, tapping the stylus on his chin. He paused, then asked, "And how far has this... friendship progressed?"

"Uh, not far, not far at all," his son hurried to explain. "I really didn't have time to call before I left so I, uh, emailed her." He paused for a moment, then glanced all around before bringing his eyes front and center again. "On the official server." Another pause, then, "After all, she_ is _an agent..."

Jeff kept his eyes on his son, then reached over for a sip of his coffee. When he had put down the cup, he asked, "Is she pretty?"

The space monitor nodded vigorously. "Yeah. She's pretty. Very pretty. I was planning on using the IR server while I was up here, and then changing over to my personal email address and calling from my own phone when I returned."

"I suppose you talked with her earlier?"

"Yes, sir," John affirmed, his face getting serious. "But it was an official call and we both kept it to official business."

Jeff kept his son's gaze for another long moment, then he chuckled, shaking his head. "All right, all right. You can follow through on your plan. Lord knows you get lonely enough up there. I know I can trust you to limit your voice and picture communications to official IR business." He smiled. "I suppose you'll be wanting to visit the Unity City offices when you're home?"

"If it's not too much trouble," John said, relaxing into a smile.

"Seems Unity City is a pretty popular place all of a sudden," Jeff said wryly. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Da... Commander," the blond replied gratefully. Then he sobered. "By the way, have you heard from her about... about staying?"

Jeff smiled widely. "Yes, I have. I don't think she'd mind if I forwarded her response. It was very short, and quite moving."

"Thanks again, Commander," John repeated, his own face mirroring his father's smile.

"Do you need anything else?"

He shook his blond head. "No, I don't think so. Just tell Sigma to get moving on that project of his. I'm counting the days before I get back to base."

"I'll tell him. Take care up there."

"I will. Thunderbird Five, out."

John's picture winked out and Jeff snorted a laugh. "Looks like I'd better find out more about this Agent 87. I haven't seen John this excited about a girl in a long time."

In the main control room of Thunderbird Five, a grinning John turned from the vidscreen, raised his two fists above his head and sharply brought them straight down with a shouted, "Yes!"

xxxx

Jorge limped into Alvarez's office, not bothering to knock. His leg had seized up from his many hours at the computer, working on trying to alter the World Government files on the Minister of Security. Paulo, the current bodyguard, lowered his gun at the wizened man, who glared at him. Ramirez looked up from his data pad, and Alvarez, who was dictating to the secretary, paused mid-sentence.

"It's done," said the dour hacker. "De encryption was very complex, but de subfolders are altered." Gesturing toward Ramirez with his head and a hateful glance, he said curtly, "Next time, don't send him or anyone else to check on me. My work gets done faster witout interference."

"Excellent, Jorge, excellent," Alvarez said with a smile. "And I will take your... suggestion under advisement."

Jorge nodded, turned on his heel, and left.

"Arrogant dog," Ramirez hissed. "If we did not need his skills..."

"Calm yourself, Fernando," Alvarez cautioned. "I can make him dance to my tune quite easily should he fail to obey." The minister's eyes began to glow yellow. "As I can do also to you, Fernando, should you prove disloyal."

Ramirez held up a trembling hand and swallowed heavily. "No, _por favor_! I am your loyal servant!" he said in a shaky voice. "I will not disappoint you."

"I know you won't," the man across the desk said, letting the glow of his eyes fade. "Now, back to the press release. I will return to Unity City in two days."

xxxx

Jeff was reading some more of the emails he had received during dinner. He glanced up as Virgil came into the lounge, a folder in his hand, and headed for the piano.

"Don't mind me, Dad," the musician said. "I'm not going to play. Just want to tidy up."

"Wouldn't bother me if you did play," the father said. "I can listen and read at the same time."

Virgil smiled, and opened his piano bench. He pulled the music from the stand and flipped through it, putting the pages in order and tamping them down on the closed keyboard. He added a small clip in the center on one of the longer sides of the page and slid the small bundle into another folder that was already sitting in the bench's storage space. Then he took out the freshly printed pages that he had transcribed. It was a piece he had played when Lucinda Myles had paid her unexpected visit, a song that his mother had written for his father and that Jeff had basically banned from his hearing since Lucille had died. He smiled as he added it to the scores in the folder. Then, he took out one more.

It was entitled, "Pink Lady", and was his own composition. He had written it on a keyboard that he had tucked away in the Cliff House, far from listening ears. It was one of the few tributes he had made to Penelope. There were no paintings, other than the one that hung in the lounge, no sculptures (not his best medium, anyway), just a few sketches, hidden from view, and this piece. He hadn't dared to do more; he didn't want his unspoken passion for her discovered. Not when she gazed at his father the way she did, not when he seemed, on some level, to reciprocate her affections. But now... now that he knew thathis fatherwasn't interested inPenelope, now that his father and his brothers knew of his desire for the aristocrat, now he could bring out the small tributes he had made to her. And soon, very soon, he might be able to create more works to express his love. He just had to tell her... somehow.

He slipped the song into the music folder, and put it back into the bench. Straightening, he glanced toward his father, who was looking sad and thoughtful behind the desk. Leaving the original folder on the music stand, he walked across the room. "Hey, Dad. You look a little gloomy. What's the matter?"

"A letter from one of our agents," Jeff said, turning the computer's screen toward his son. Virgil leaned over and read,

_"Dear Commander,_

_"It is with a heavy heart that I write in reply to your letter. I am hereby resigning from the network, effective immediately. _

_"As you may remember, I was one of the party who helped retrieve the Pink Lady from her imprisonment earlier this month. In doing so, I found myself doing things that both excited and frightened me. Shooting lasers, driving at high speeds, trying to stop a group of men bent on obstructing our purpose, and praying as I did that I would not harm any of them beyond repair. Then there was the tense retreat, with the life of one of my fellow operatives in my hands, and my failure to save that life, though I did my utmost with the tools at my disposal._

_"But most serious of all was the destruction of the craft that pursued us. I am sure the operative piloting the aircraft which protected us had good reason to do what he did, but I cannot see that reason. And his action to destroy life, rather than save it, reflects not only on him, but on you, your organization, and myself as part of it._

_"I have sworn an oath to 'first, do no harm'. That oath must take precedence over my allegiance to your cause. I will, of course, keep silent about the organization, and I will communicate with the one who sponsored me to tell him of my decision. And should your operatives need medical assistance when in Unity City, if it is within my power to help, I shall. But I can no longer remain an official part of the organization with a clear conscience._

_"Please arrange for the removal of the communication equipment from my home, and you may suspend my stipend upon receipt of this letter._

_"I wish you well._

_Sincerely,  
__V. Solokov, M.D.  
__Agent 112"_

"That's hard, Dad," Virgil finally said as he finished reading the letter and turned the computer back towards his father. "I can see where he's coming from, but I also know that Scott didn't make that decision lightly."

"No, he didn't," Jeff said with a sigh. "In fact, he asked permission to use deadly force. He was under attack as much as FAB-1 was. I guess the doctor didn't see that." He closed the letter and moved it to a different folder on his computer.

Virgil eased his rump up onto the desk near one of the supports and sat perched on the edge, arms folded. "Dad, I thought we had only 205 agents. Kenny Malone was number 204, and that friend of John's from NASA, what's her name? Oh yeah, Christine. I thought she was 205. Where'd we suddenly get 207?"

Jeff met Virgil's gaze for a moment then glanced down. "Well, son, Penny and Parker don't have numbers, but they are still agents. I have extended the same offer to them." He blew a breath out through his nose, and raised his eyes again. "When I showed her the letter, Penelope asked for the choice."

"What?" Virgil squawked, turning, bracing himself on the desk top, one leg dropping to touch the floor as the other leg slid up and onto the surface. "Why? Why did you give it to her?"

"Virgil, I'm afraid that Penelope has some grave misgivings about being an agent..." Jeff began.

Virgil cut him off. "I know, she's told me about them."

Jeff was surprised by this statement, but decided not to probe any deeper. "Then you understand why she asked for the choice."

"Yes, I guess so. But I don't understand why you gave it to her! Aren't you afraid of losing her? Aren't you afraid she'll walk away?"

"Virgil, I am _very_ much afraid she'll walk away. But how could I _not_ give her the choice, especially when she asked for it? As dear as she is to me, to us as a family, I'm not going to stand in the way of she chooses to live her life."

The musician remained motionless and quiet for a moment. Then he asked softly, "Dad, would you give _us_ that choice? Would you stand in the way if we decided to leave?"

Jeff sat back with a small groan. "I knew this would come up." He stared at Virgil for a long moment, and, as the son watched, it was almost as if he could see his father marshalling his thoughts by the look on his face.

"Son, I gave you the choice, back when we started preparations for International Rescue. And I gave you the choice again, before we started operations. If I need to give you or any of your brothers the choice now, you will have it. As much as I need you to carry out my dream, if you no longer believe in it, then... what is there to say? I love you, and if you really believe your path in life takes you away from here, I can't stand in your way." He smiled slightly. "I'm going to do my damnedest to convince you to stay, though. And the same goes for Brains, and Tin-Tin, and even Kyrano."

Virgil's mouth dropped open and his eyes widened as he listened to his father. When Jeff finished talking, the younger man just stared for a bit. Then he swallowed and asked, "Who are you and what have you done with my father?"

Jeff laughed, and Virgil shook his head, an incredulous smile on his face. "Seriously, Dad. Your response is so... unexpected. What brought this out?"

The older man waved a hand. "This whole situation, I suppose. We've never lost an operative before. Especially someone so young and with such heavy responsibilities. It's made me look again at... everything." He met Virgil's gaze again, his blue eyes warm, his voice sure. "The one thing I do know; what we are doing is worth it. Peter said it was. It's a pretty humbling thing when a dying man tells you he thinks your cause is worth his very life. Did you hear about that? About what Peter said?"

"Yeah, Dad. Penny told me," Virgil replied. He lowered his gaze for a moment, and when he looked up again, he was smiling, his eyes alight with pride and affection. He held out his hand to his father. "I think I agree with Peter. For what it's worth, Dad, I'm in... for the duration."

Jeff rose, and took his son's hand, then reached awkwardly across the desk to hug him. Virgil reached, too, and thumped his father on the back. They parted, and Virgil said, "Now that we're sure that I'm staying, what do we do about Penelope?"

"I don't know, son, truly I don't. She has to have time to come to her own decision," Jeff replied.

His son nodded. "You're right. But I think I may take a walk on the beach tomorrow afternoon."

xxxx

Scott stood quietly next to Parker near the graveside in the Catholic portion of the Derry City Cemetery. The funeral Mass had been at St. Eugene's Cathedral, on Creggan Street. Being nominally Methodist, Scott only remembered going to church as a child on Easter and at Christmas, and as a result, was usually uncomfortable in church. Add to that discomfort the slight headache he still had from the night before, and the Mass went by in a haze of chanting, singing, kneeling, standing, prayers and clouds of incense. He did not take the Eucharist, as he felt it was not his place, but slipped outside for some fresh air as the service seemed to be closing. Parker followed, concerned about his current charge's well-being. The air outside was cool and damp and Scott breathed it in deeply.

"H'Are yew h'all rayte, Mr. Scott?" Parker asked.

Scott nodded. "I will be. Just needed the fresh air." He gazed upwards as the wind began to play with the flaps of his open black overcoat. "Looks like we might get some rain, Parker."

"Yus, sir. We mayte h'at that," the chauffeur commented agreeably.

The coffin was carried out by the family members of both Peter and Melissa. Scott recognized the stout form of Sean, and the taller ones of Mike and Keegan. Melissa was next to come out, dressed in black, veiled, surrounded by her family and that of her husband. The youngest boy _Quinn, he must be five or six now_ clung to his mother's hand. They passed by the crowds of mourners who stood on the sides of the wide walkway from the front of the cathedral to where the dark cars, and the hearse, waited.

The drive to the cemetery had been short, only about a half mile, and they wound through the small paved pathways to the Catholic section, where the ground was consecrated by the blessing of the Church. Scott and Parker left their car some distance from the grave site, and walked to join the friends and family who were gathering around it. The wind picked up and the leaden sky darkened, threatening to open up on those who were seeing Peter Riordan to his final resting place. It took time for the coffin to get there as the men in the family carried Peter on their shoulders part of the way toward the cemetery before sliding it into the hearse to complete the journey.

As the priest gave the final prayers over the deceased, Scott found himself watching Melissa's children. Young Kaylie's head was bare, her red locks a stark contrast against the sea of black surrounding her. So too, were little Quinn's bright curls. Kaylie sobbed as if her heart were broken, but P.J., Peter's oldest boy, stood solemn and straight next to his mother. Tears were on his cheeks, but he did not sob._ Out of all the children, he and Kaylie probably understand this the most, _Scott mused. _I wonder what it would have been like had I lost my mother at such a young age? I am so glad I was an adult when that avalanche claimed her. It wasn't easy to cope with her loss, but I didn't have to grow up without her, or Gramps._

The coffin was lowered into the grave with a small crane that straddled the deep hole. When the job was done, and the workers climbed out, the priest made a cross in the air and intoned something that was almost inaudible over the rising wind. Melissa took a few shaky steps forward and dropped a red rose into the hole. Each of the children followed, the younger ones dropping flowers, while P.J. dropped a small clod of dirt. His movement was quick and jerky, as if he didn't want to do it. Then he turned and his grandfather, Aidan, put an arm around the boy, and drew him back.

As others began to add a symbolic bit of dirt, Scott suddenly thought of his new phone number_. I need to get it to Melissa somehow._ He pulled out his wallet, and the card, then grabbed a fresh business card and scribbled the number down on the back. He added the words, "If you need a friend", beneath the number, put the original card and the wallet away, and began to make his way around the back of the crowd toward the black cars that waited for the family members.

Scott found P.J. standing behind his grandfather, Aidan, who was busy helping some of the older womenfolk into the car. He tapped the boy gently on the shoulder. "Mr. Scott!" P.J. said as he turned, his eyes wide.

"P.J., I'm really sorry and sad about your dad," Scott said quietly, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder. P.J. looked down at the ground and Scott bent over to catch his eye. "Listen, when I saw your mom last, I gave her my satellite phone so she could call if she needed me. I have a new number now." He pressed the card into the boy's hand. "Would you please give it to her for me?"

The boy looked at the card blankly, flipping it over in his fingers, then glanced at Scott and nodded. Scott smiled a bit, straightened, and suppressed an urge to ruffle the red hair. Instead he gave the black-clad shoulder a brief squeeze. "Thanks."

Just then, Aidan turned around. He glanced quickly between man and boy, then again put a protective arm around P.J. and drew him close, gently forcing him to turn around. The boy looked back briefly and said, "Bye, Mr. Scott."

Scott said, "Bye. P.J." Aidan O'Connor, whose gaze hadn't left Scott's face for an instant, gave him a brief nod, and shepherded his grandson into the car.

The car pulled away, and Scott watched it go, even as fat raindrops began to spatter on the pavement. When it disappeared, he turned back to the grave, where a last few souls were saying their goodbyes to Peter and dropping bits of dirt on the coffin, crossing themselves as often as not, as they did. Scott took up a clod of dirt, rich, dark, Irish soil, crumbled it, and let it trickle from his palm through his widely-stretched fingers. "Goodbye, Pete," he murmured. He dusted off his hands, then fastened up his overcoat as the rain began to fall in earnest.

xxxx

It was at least an hour before dawn, maybe earlier, and Jim Franks, in his "Derek Edwards" guise, was finding it hard to stay awake. He had found his empty property, an older house, set well back from the country road it was on and surrounded by shrubs that showed signs of neglect. There were no near neighbors, just acres of yet-to-be-tilled farmland out back. Now he was looking for his mark.

As he sipped his strong, fast-cooling coffee, he remembered what Lucinda had once told him about the woman, that she was a dietician at a retirement center. "Just need to get a feel for when she leaves for work, when she leaves to go home, and the routes she takes, then plan accordingly," he muttered to himself. So he had found a spot from which to watch his victim's house, making careful note of who went out and when. The lights had gone on in the mark's house about 20 minutes before, and he hoped that soon the woman herself would appear.

There was a slight movement in the driveway that caught his attention; someone was coming out to one of the cars. He lifted his binoculars to his eyes, dialed in the infrared lenses, and smiled. Sure enough, someone had just gotten into one of the cars, and was pulling out of the drive. He switched quickly over to a regular zoom lens as the car began to back out. The light inside the vehicle hadn't yet turned off on its own and Franks could clearly see the silvery hair that decorated the back of the driver's head.

"Bingo!" he breathed, grinning. He waited until the car passed, able to see more clearly that, yes, this was the woman he wanted. He counted to five as he started up his sedan and pulled out into the road, following the woman's car at a safe distance.


	26. Food For Thought

_Author's Note: _Scott and Parker return with Kenny, Grandma gets a phone call, and Penelope makes one. Still on a roll here, and continuing to the final chapter. My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading.

Now, on to my reviewers.

**Math Girl: **Thanks for the good words on the rescue; since no one got hurt, I thought it might be boring! But more often than not those are the kind of rescues they probably have. John and Brigitte are fun to write; wait until they actually get together! Whether Penelope figures things out before Virgil opens his mouth has yet to be determined. And yes, Lou will be back soon, just not in this chapter. Sorry!

**Claudette:** Yes, with Parker's past, he's had plenty of practice in making up stories and keeping them straight! And who would you place your money on? I think that with the clout that Gaat-Alvarez now wields as Minister of Security, the IRA might have a bit of trouble taking him down.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

Parker flew them from Derry to L.A. Scott still had a headache; it pounded like a dull thudding in the background. He rested his head and tried to keep from falling asleep, but the next thing he knew Parker was asking for landing clearance at LAX. 

"Mmm. How long was I asleep?" the younger man asked.

"H'Abaowt two hours," the chauffeur answered. "Ye must o' needed h'it."

"Yeah, I guess so." He pulled his PDA out of his suit jacket pocket. "We've got a slightly longer layover in L.A. this time," he commented. "Dad's arranged for one of the company planes. I guess he'll have Alan pick up this one when he brings Kenny back."

"H'A good h'idea," Parker said with a nod. "This is fayne jet, but h'it's h'a mayte crowded wiv three."

Scott agreed. The JT-1 had built for speed, not comfort. The cockpit was wider than the normal fighter jet's but not by much. He knew that his father had flown from Bongo-Bongo once with Penelope by his side, but it had been a tight fit and a short flight. Two grown men in the pilot's seat for three hours? Not to be considered.

"Ay 'ope ye won't maynd, Mr. Scott, h'if Ay rayde h'in th' passenger cabin fer th' rest o' th' trip," the chauffeur ventured. "Ay would layke t' finish th' program Ay wuz workin' h'on."

"Not at all, Parker. I'll take it from here."

Parker carefully brought the JT-1 into the Tracy Industries hangar, slipping it into the place that the hangar personnel directed him to. "Welcome t' Los Angeles," he quipped as he unfastened his safety straps.

"Uh, thanks, Parker," Scott responded, rolling his eyes upward and giving his head a little shake.

The hanger chief, Maureen Hedinori, affectionately known as "Mo", came over to greet them. "There's fresh coffee in the terminal and that phone you ordered is waiting, Scott. I've been looking out for this Kenny Malone dude, but he hasn't showed." She ran her fingers through her long black hair, streaked through with strands of neon pink, electric blue, and bright yellow. "Jet 104 is waiting, and I'll have the boys transfer your luggage over."

"Thanks, Mo. I could use that cup of coffee," he said, smiling at her.

She gave him a little punch in the upper arm as they headed for the terminal. "So, what's so interesting in Londonderry? A new client? New corporate offices? Will we be seeing more flights from here to there?"

"My, my, my, aren't we nosy today," Scott chivvied with a smile as they entered the small private terminal.

"No, no, no, Scott. Get it right._ I'm _Mo," she said. Hooking a thumb over her shoulder, she finished with, "and_ he's _Nosey." Parker, following them and carrying his laptop case, scowled but said nothing.

"Actually, I went to a friend's funeral," Scott admitted quietly, his smile fading.

Mo was immediately sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Scott. Leave it to me to put my foot in my mouth... again. Was it someone you knew well?"

"Yeah. An old friend from my days at Oxford. We kept in touch," Scott replied, shrugging. He took off his overcoat and suit coat and draped them over one of the comfortable couches that sat in the VIP lounge, then loosened his tie. She went over and poured a cup of coffee into a clean mug then handed it to him.

"Thanks, Mo," he said, accepting the cup and putting one packet of sugar into it. He leaned against the counter that held the coffee maker and an electric kettle. Parker had already switched on the latter device to make himself a cup of tea. There was a plate of fresh donuts on a covered stand next to the coffee, and Scott selected one, covering the edges of his mouth with powdered sugar as he bit into it. "No cheese Danish this time?" he asked after washing down the donut with a couple of sips of coffee.

"No. Enzo made the bakery run this morning. He's got something against sweet cream cheese." She glanced out the door, and nudged Scott. "Look."

Scott glanced up and through the plate glass door to see a thin, dark haired man gazing around uncertainly. He was accompanied by a pregnant blonde who was pushing a stroller with a little girl in it, and was himself dragging a sizeable piece of luggage behind him in addition to the travel case he had slung over one shoulder.

"It's Kenny. Let him in," Scott said. Mo nodded and went to the door to unlock it.

"Kenny!" Scott called, putting down his coffee and donut. "Good to see you!" He walked across the lounge, hand outstretched.

Kenny Malone grinned and took it. "Hey, Scott. Long time no see." Letting go of Scott's hand, he gestured toward the blonde. "I don't think you've met my wife, Beth. And this is our daughter, Tracy."

Scott shook hands and murmured pleasantries with Beth, then introduced Mo and Parker. He squatted down to get face to face with the toddler. "Hey, there, Tracy. That looks like a gooood cookie!" The little blonde offered him a bit of the graham cracker she was masticating, and Scott took it, pretended to nibble it a bit, then handed it back. "Mmmmm! Thank you!"

Tracy's parents laughed, and Scott stood up, smiling. "We'll be ready to go within the hour. Help yourselves to coffee or tea and there are soft drinks in the fridge," he said, pointing out the small refrigerator set under the counter top. "I'm going to finish my donut and see about our preflight checks."

"Okay, Scott. Let me just say my goodbyes, here." Mo had already taken Kenny's luggage away, indicating that she'd have it loaded on the jet. Kenny walked his wife and daughter out to walk in front of the Tracy Industries terminal. Scott watched for a moment as Alan's friend removed little Tracy from the stroller, talking to her then hugging her lightly, kissing her on the forehead. The toddler returned the salute on her father's cheek and wrapped her little arms around his neck. He squatted down to return the child to the stroller, then stood again and cupped his wife's face in one hand, kissing her lovingly, once, twice. They embraced, a fierce hug, then kissed again, long and passionately. Beth moved away, and her husband stood there for a few more moments, waving. _How many times did I see Pete do that kind of thing to Melissa? _Scott mused. _And will I ever have anyone to do that with myself? _He became very interested in his snack as the mechanic re-entered the building.

"I guess I'll have a cup of coffee," Kenny said, pouring one for himself. He took a sip and sighed. "I'll really miss them." Glancing over at Scott, he asked, "Did Alan tell you that I'd named her Tracy after him?"

"Yeah, he did," Scott replied, snorting a chuckle. "In fact, he wouldn't shut up about it."

Kenny laughed and slapped Scott on the back. "Sounds like our ol' Alan all right!"

Mo returned, having ducked into her office after dealing with Kenny's effects. "Here, Scott. Here's that phone you ordered," she said, handing him a box. Scott dusted his hands clear of the powdered sugar and opened the box. The very latest model of picture satellite phone lay inside, with all its accoutrements, instruction booklet, and a note telling him that the phone was fully charged. He pulled out the phone, flipped it open and began to familiarize himself with the controls. At that point, Enzo, one of the mechanics who serviced the planes at this particular Tracy Industries outpost, came in.

"Scott? You ready for preflight?"

"Hey, Enzo," Scott said, putting the phone in his shirt pocket and closing the box. "I'm ready." He looked around, making eye contact with Parker and Kenny, "Takeoff in thirty."

xxxx

"H'An' that does h'it!" Parker exclaimed, punching a last computer key. He saved the program he was working on to a disk, then emphatically closed the laptop, and rubbed his eyes.

"What were you working on?" Kenny asked from his seat across the aisle. The flight was near its completion and had been quiet. Kenny had immersed himself in a mechanic's manual from Rolls Royce, and Parker had been working hard on Lou's little commission.

"Nuffin' much," Parker said, shrugging. "Just h'a piece o' code fer h'a friend o' Mr. Brains. 'Ow's h'it goin' wiv th' manual?"

"It's heavy going sometimes. Wasn't exactly written for Americans, if you know what I mean," Kenny admitted. "Have to do a bit of translating while I read."

"Ah," Parker said, nodding. He normally would be offended by this Yank's comments, but Kenny said it in such an apologetic manner that it was hard to feel more than just a touch of irritation. "Ye'll fin' that 'er Ladyship's Rolls h'is h'a mayte more complex than usual. 'Tis h'a custom jobbie."

"I know; Alan told me. Sent me some specs. I just hope I can be a help to him. If it were an American make, I'd be able to repair it just like that." Kenny snapped his fingers. "But this will be more of a challenge. Especially if he gets..." He let his voice trail off, not sure of Parker's relationship to the Tracy's covert activities.

" 'Specially h'if 'e gets called h'aowt h'on h'a rescue?" Parker offered. "Don' worray, Mr. Malone. Ay've been h'in this bizness from nearly th' very start."

Kenny nodded and smiled, relieved that he hadn't said anything he wasn't supposed to. His curiosity piqued, he asked, "What do you do for the Tracys, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Teck-ni-kally, Ay don' work fer th' Tracys. Ay work fer 'er Ladyship, Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward. She's h'International Rescue's London h'agent. Ay h'am 'er chauffeur an' 'er butler. An' when she needs h'a 'and wiv 'er dooties, Ay provide h'it."

"Sounds interesting. I suppose that makes you an agent, too?" Kenny pressed.

Parker shrugged. "Ay suppose h'it does. Ay never thought o' h'it thet way."

Kenny paused for a moment, then asked, "Did you get the letter? The one Mr. Tracy sent out?"

"No, Ay don' think so," Parker said. It was true; he hadn't checked his official email box in a couple of days. "Per'aps 'e didn' send me one, seein' h'as Ay work fer 'er Ladyship."

"Maybe," Kenny agreed. He sat back with a sigh. "It was certainly an eye-opener. First thing he said was that one of the other agents died in the line of duty. A father with a wife and kids."

The chauffeur nodded. "Yus, one did. 'Twas 'is funeral Mr. Scott an' me wuz comin' back from."

"Oh, I didn't know!" the mechanic sat straight up again as if stung. "I'm sorry. Did you know him well?"

Parker sighed. "Mayself? No, but Mr. Scott did. Ay wuz supposed t' 'ave known 'im, though; 'twas part o' th' cover story we came h'up wiv t' h'explain 'is death." He saw the younger man's face pale and take on an expression of consternation. "Ay'll h'explain later. What h'else did Mr. Tracy say?"

Kenny took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "He said that he had come to realize that some of the things he was asking of his agents might be too much for them to handle, and that the job was more dangerous than he had originally thought. He offered anyone who wanted to leave the option of doing so, and that those who wanted to just gather information should tell him so. And that he would be looking at each remaining agent to see what he or she were equipped to do so that in the future only those qualified for a certain task would be asked to do it."

"Ah," Parker replied, nodding slowly. "Ay'll 'ave t' look fer h'it when we get back t' th' h'island."

There was a silence between them, then Kenny licked his lips and blurted out, "What would _you _do? Stay or go?"

The older man's bushy eyebrows went up in surprise. "Me? Well... Ay suppose Ay'll be doin' whuteffer Milady decides. May furst h'ob-lig-ashun h'is t' 'er."

"Hmm." Kenny contemplated the answer he had been given, then sighed heavily. "I'm not sure what to do. I mean, Alan's a great friend and all, and working for International Rescue is the chance of a lifetime! But... I've got a wife and child to think of, and another coming..." He shook his head. "If I could be sure of my own safety, I'd feel better."

Parker shook his head. "Ye can _never_ be sure o' yer safety, lad. Ye could be 'it by h'a car an' killed h'on ye way t' th' h'apothecary. H'All ye ken do h'is be prepared fer th' worst should h'it come. Then live yer life h'as best ye ken." He shifted in his chair. "H'If ye want t' know, Agent 53, 'im that wuz Peter Riordan, 'e thought 'is work wiv H'In-ter-nash-un-all Rescue t' be worth givin' 'is life for. Naow, ye may think differently, but h'as fer mayself? Ay h'agree wiv 'im." He pointed at the younger man as he made his next point. "H'An remember, 'e wuz h'in th' same circumstances h'as yerself. Wife an' children an' all."

"I wonder what he saw in it that made him think that way?" Kenny mused.

"Ay'm sure Ay don' know. Ay h'only know what 'e said h'at th' end. That 'twuz worth h'it."

Kenny nodded his head slowly. "Thanks, Mr. Parker. You've given me some food for thought."

"Yer welcome, Mr. Malone." The older man looked at his watch and sighed. "We'll be landin' soon. No' enaow time fer h'a kip."

xxxx

Nine in the morning on Tracy Island, and Eleanor was tending to her bedroom. It seemed to need dusting more often lately, perhaps because the air conditioning plant was working overtime with the latest warm spell. _Like an Indian summer back home, only hotter and more humid, _she thought as she took an ostrich feather duster to her antique mirror. _I'm almost positive that some of the dust from those dang lava tubes gets into the system and spreads all around the house!_

Scott was already home and having a nap after his flight, while a fidgety Kenny Malone had been escorted down to the pod vehicle repair bay, talking a mile a minute to Alan. She had been shown the pictures of Kenny with his wife and little girl at breakfast and had gushed appropriately. She wished that she had photos of her grandson's wives and babies to reciprocate with, but since none of them were married or had children (at least none that _she_ was aware of), she couldn't. That was one thing that had galled her during her visit home; all of her friends had grandchildren with children of their own and not a few had clucked their tongues at the continued bachelorhood of her five handsome grandsons. In fact, a few of the old biddies with dirty minds had cattily and subtly insinuated that her boys were enjoying each other's company, an opinion that earned them Eleanor's coldest stare and a generally frosty reception from her true friends.

She sighed as she remembered how a few of those true friends kept bringing up their unmarried or divorced daughters, and how they were looking for "just the right man". She knew what was going on there; to have a Tracy as a son-in-law would be a feather in any mother's cap. But Eleanor politely refused to set her boys up with any of her friends' daughters. She firmly believed that her grandsons had the right to choose who they wished to share their lives with, and to make that choice without any interference from their grandma, or their father for that matter!

But when did they have time to develop the kind of relationship that leads to a good solid marriage? She had been encouraged by the attraction that Alan and Tin-Tin obviously had for each other. _If only he would drop that stupid "my life is too dangerous" attitude and get on with the program! _And if the teasing that John had endured at the table the evening before was any indication, her middle grandson might have a lady in mind for himself. After dinner, she had asked Tin-Tin to let her see the background file on this Agent 87; the Malaysian girl had been more than willing to tell her all about her friend from Paris. Eleanor had seen the photo that accompanied the file and been very impressed by John's taste. _My, but those two would have absolutely exquisite babies! _she thought, smiling.

She had mixed feelings about Penelope. It was obvious how the aristocrat felt about Jeff, but either her son was too dense to notice or he just wasn't interested. When she thought about it, Jeff treated Penelope more like he treated Tin-Tin, as a daughter, or perhaps as a trusted friend. She truly would like to see her son emerge from his grief over Lucille, but she didn't see the blonde as suitable for him. Penelope would look too much like a trophy wife, a trend that she knew Jeff despised in men his age. And then there was Virgil...

If Virgil thought he could hide his affection for Penelope from his grandmother, he was sadly mistaken. She noticed the way he lit up every time her Ladyship came to visit, the way he pulled out all the stops when he played his piano to try and impress her. The subtle things were there, if you knew how to look for them, and Eleanor Tracy knew how. On top of that, she had found the little stash of sketches under his bed and the composition in the Cliff House. What use was there in being a grandmother if you couldn't snoop around...?

The vidphone ringing in her sitting room startled her. She let out a small squeak and jumped a bit, then recovered herself and went to answer it. The vidphone was set before her favorite rocker, one she had brought over from the States, and she slid into it with a sigh of relief. It did feel good to get off her feet!

Activating the unit, she smiled as Gordon's face appeared. "Yes, Gordon dear?"

"A call for you, Grandma," he said. "I'm transferring it down to your line."

"Thank you, dear." The picture of her copper-haired grandson disappeared and the face of her old friend, Maru Soo, replaced it.

"Maru! So good to hear from you!" Eleanor exclaimed with a smile of pleasure. "This is the second time in just a few weeks!"

Maru smiled back. "Hello there, El. I thought I'd call you before I sent an email to that son of yours about the letter he sent out."

"You mean the one about the... death?" Eleanor asked. She had sat in on the end of the debriefing, though she didn't have anything to say. Talking about the rescue wasn't really her place, but Jeff had wanted everyone to know about the letter all at once.

"Yes, that one. Really, El, I don't know what he wants with an old woman like me," Maru complained. "I'm nothing special. But as long as my mind is intact and my body is relatively spry, I'll stay the course."

"I'm sure he'll be glad to hear it, Maru," Grandma replied. "Fortunately only a few people have dropped out."

"Only a few? That's good to hear." Maru paused. "I wish there was something I could do for the wife and children of the agent that was killed. But I just live too far away to do more than send a sympathy card. And I wouldn't know where to send it, anyway."

"I know; I have the same problem." Eleanor said in commiseration. "Jeff will take care of the financial end of things. They'll have everything that they need."

"But will they have the emotional support they'll need to get through this? I remember when my husband died..."

"And I remember when Grant died. Sometimes it seems like just yesterday, doesn't it?" Grandma Tracy shook her head slowly. "The pain fades, but it never really goes away."

There was a long quiet moment, then Maru snorted. "Listen to us! A couple of old biddies feeling sorry for ourselves! So, tell me, has Jeff seen any more of that nice Lou lady?"

Eleanor frowned. "Lucinda Myles? No, he has _not_. He has called her, or she has called him, but he's been much too busy to visit."

"My, my, my," her friend said, a touch of laughing challenge in her voice. "Methinks you protest too much, El! She seemed like a nice lady when I met her. Jeff could do worse."

"She's the one who had an affair with him when Lucille was pregnant with Gordon," Eleanor stated flatly. "He could do much better than a home wrecker like that one."

Maru frowned at her friend. "What _proof_ do you have that there was any kind of affair, El? As I recall, not only did Jeff insist there wasn't, but Lucille did, too! If _she_ could trust her husband in the matter, why can't you? After all, he's your son!"

"The signs were there. The late nights 'at work', the way he never talked about what they were doing in the investigation... what else could have been going on?" Eleanor shot back hotly. "I should know the signs when I see them."

Her friend's eyes got bigger with comprehension. "Oh, I see! Just because..."

"I don't even want to talk about it!" the irate grandmother cried. "Just drop the subject. As for Mrs. Myles, I'm sure there was a good reason why she got divorced. Why would Jeff want someone else's second-hand woman?"

"You're not going to be rational about this, are you?" Maru said sharply. "Well, for the record, I liked Mrs. Myles. I liked the way she interacted with Jeff. I liked the way she put herself on the line for his organization. And I think she'd be good for him."

There was a tense pause, then Eleanor asked, "Are you through?"

"For now. Please let Jeff know he'll be getting a letter from me," Maru said coolly.

"I will. Goodbye, Maru." The still-angry Eleanor cut off the communication. She got up and went to fetch her duster, muttering as she went. "Who does she think she is, second-guessing me? I know what I saw. I'll never know why Lucille turned a blind eye to it all and was friends with that... that _woman_... all those years. Maybe it was a case of 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer'." She leaned over to pick up her tool, which had fallen to the floor in her haste to answer the phone. As she stood straight again, a wave of dizziness caused the room to spin momentarily.

"Oooh!" she cried as she stumbled over to the bed and sat down heavily. She put her elbows on her thighs and her head in her hands, closing her eyes until the vertigo and the accompanying nausea went away. "Must have stood up too fast," she reasoned out loud. "Whew!" Glancing over at her pillow, she decided that, though it looked terribly inviting, she had work to do and she'd better get to it. She allowed herself one more moment's rest, then stood up slowly and carefully. Her head didn't swim, and she sighed a deep sigh of relief as she took her duster to the sitting room, ready to finish the job.

xxxx

Nine in the morning elsewhere in the house and Lady Penelope was making a call. Addison's phone number had been recorded in her voice mail even though the woman herself hadn't left a message, so Penelope was phoning to see what her old friend had wanted. Parker had already reported to her with the breakfast tray, and a brief description of the wake and funeral. Then she had sent her chauffeur off to bed, telling him to have Kyrano pick up the tray later.

"Senator Addison Kennicot's office. How may I help you?" The cultured British tones of Addi's secretary made Penelope smile.

"This is Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward returning the senator's call," she said smoothly. "Please ascertain if the senator is able to speak to me now or if I should ring her again later."

"Please hold," the secretary said, and suddenly Penelope's ear was filled with the lilting strains of Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Music of the Night" from_ Phantom of the Opera. _She did not have to wait long; the tune was barely over when Anne returned to tell her that she was transferring her call.

Addison looked weary, Penelope decided. Weary and perhaps a bit sad. So she got right to the point. "Hallo, Addi. I noticed your number was included in my voice mail, but you forgot to leave a message. Was there something you wanted?"

"Yes, Penelope. There was." Addison put down her stylus and gathered her thoughts. "I had another visit from the two detectives working on the disappearance of Alison St. Clair. They... they asked me about my connection to the Riordan family."

Penny's mind quickly processed the information. "I think I might know why they would ask such a question, but I would like to hear it from you. Please tell me what they said, and what your reply was."

"They said that in their investigation of this woman's disappearance, some blood was found on the beach at Minister Alvarez's home. They said that DNA of the blood matched that of Peter Riordan. They wanted to know why I arranged for the diplomatic seals and papers for Mr. Riordan's body. I told them that a dear friend had asked me to do it, and that Mrs. Riordan's plight was similar to mine two years ago." Her face revealed the level of her consternation. "I don't understand any of this, Penny! How did his blood come to be on the minister's beach? You said he was with you..."

Taking a deep breath, Penelope said softly, "Calm yourself, Addi. Please tell me, what else did they say or ask?"

"They asked me who the 'dear friend' was." Addison dropped her eyes, avoiding Penelope's gaze. "I... I gave them your name." Glancing up again, she gazed at Penelope through the vidphone, her eyes sad and apprehensive. "I... had no other choice."

Penelope's face froze for a second as the implications of her friend's actions sank in. Then she forced herself to smile. "I understand, my dear, truly I do. Do not worry another moment about it. I shall take care of the matter on my end."

Addison relaxed just a touch and nodded then, with a hurt expression, asked, "What _is _going on, Penny? You say one thing; the police say another... I knew you were in some kind of secret work when you left Rowden, but I always thought you were on the side... the side of the angels, so to speak. Now, you lied to the public, to everyone, but especially... to me." Her voice cracked as she begged, pleading to understand. "Please tell me that you are not... that you are not..." She left the sentence hanging with an exasperated "Ah!", unable to fully explain what she needed to know.

She watched as Penelope smiled slightly, an apologetic expression on her face. "My dear, dear friend. I _cannot_ tell you what I am doing. You are correct when you say I am in a... a secret work. One that I cannot reveal to you without permission from my superiors." Now her facial expression and the look in her eyes turned both serious and earnest. "But I can and I _do_ assure you that I am _still_ on the side of the angels. Sometimes I have to use deception in order to protect myself and the group I am working for. Please understand and forgive me for deceiving you; it is for your safety as well as mine that I have done so."

"I will try to understand and forgive," Addi said after a long moment of silence between them. "I can do no more."

"I know," Penelope replied. "Now, I must go. As I said before, I shall take care of things from my end now. Should the police ask for a way to contact me, you may refer them to Foxleyheath first. If they continue to badger you, then you may give them this number. You may tell them quite truthfully that you do not know where I am. Let them work for that information. And thank you, my dear Addi, for trying to protect me. I appreciate your effort more than you shall ever know."

Addison nodded mutely. "Goodbye, my dear. I shall call again, and we will visit and catch up on each other's lives, I promise," Penelope said. "Take care of yourself and your children."

"I shall. And be careful, Penny," was all that Addison could muster up the nerve to reply. "Goodbye."

The call ended and Penelope slumped in her chair. _I must speak with Lil to see if anyone has been asking for me at Foxleyheath. She doesn't know where I am either, but there are ways... I must also speak with Jeff. It seems my decision on being an agent may be taken quite out of my hands._

xxxx

Jim Franks was quite pleased with himself. He had followed his target to her workplace, got the license number from the car and used it, with a judicious bit of hacking, to find out what he could about the vehicle. _Good, no onboard roadside assistance. And she probably has to leave her phone in the car when she gets to work. I'm sure I can lift it while she's inside._

When his mark left work, he discreetly followed her home, noticing as he passed the house that there were no other cars in the drive. He took up his vantage point again and watched, making note of when various members of the household arrived back _This is excellent. There's a three-and-a-half hour gap between her arrival and what looked like her daughter. She won't go missing for a while. But then, I hope to have my business complete by the time that happens. _He headed back to his motel room, intent on getting some sleep if he could. _Everything goes down tomorrow. And by the end of the day, Luci and I will be flying to the tropics... together._


	27. Unraveling

_Author's Note: _Penelope finds herself hemmed in on all sides, and Jeff makes an important discovery. My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading, and to Bluegrass for strengthening my shaky grip on Trish's accent. No reviews on 26 yet, but I'm rolling on.

_Special note: _I made a major edit in this chapter on advice from Claudette. Thanks for the idea, Claudette; your instincts were right on.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

It was near the end of the work day when Ciprian called Patricia. "Trish? I tink I have someting," he told her when she picked up the phone. 

"I think I have, too, so I do," she replied, grinning. "Let's meet and swap notes."

They met at a little coffee shop they both liked, one that served several different kinds of coffee and tea and had booths along two walls where they could have a relatively private conversation. Patricia ordered tea, Ciprian asked for coffee, and when the drinks were ready, they sat down in the booth farthest from the door to compare notes.

"You first, C me mate," Patricia offered. He nodded, and began to show her the evidence he had collected.

Sometime later and unnoticed by the detectives, a dark-skinned older woman with a streak of silvery-white hair from her widow's peak back got up from the booth next to theirs and made her way out to the street. Once there, she found her car, started it, and pulled into the evening's traffic, hurrying home to pass the disturbing news she had just heard on to her superiors.

xxxx

Penny was walking in Kyrano's garden again. She stopped to sniff one of the roses from the bush that Virgil had used as a model the other day. The actual blossom he had painted was wilting, but there were more where that came from, and they all smelled just as sweet.

She sighed. Addison's call had been very disturbing. She had always counted on being a cipher, someone that no one would possibly expect could be a secret agent. And now she had left a trail, one that could be traced back to her and potentially, back to the Tracys... and International Rescue.

A slight crunch on the gravel made her turn. Jeff was there, a serious expression on his face. "Penny?"

She dredged up a smile for him. "Yes, Jeff?"

"We've had some news. You'd better come up to the lounge."

In the lounge, the boys had gathered, along with Tin-Tin, Brains and Parker. Jeff had turned his computer screen around, and in a window that didn't quite take up all of the screen, was the serious face of Renée Baptiste. Penelope smiled a bit when she saw the woman. "Hello, Agent 38. Or should I use your proper name?"

"In this case, Agent 38, as I am reporting officially," Renée said, her voice as serious as her mien.

Jeff escorted Penelope to an open seat, and returned to his place behind his desk. As he did, he said, "Please tell the Pink Lady, and the other operatives, what you have just told me,"

"Yes, Commander." Renée took a sip from a glass of ice water she had beside her in her tiny home office. "I was visiting a coffee shop not far from where I work. It is a favorite place of many government workers and one where I often pick up tidbits of information. Today, I was sitting in my usual spot and two people took the booth next to mine, the one farthest from the door." Her lips quirked upwards briefly. "I have found that the people who take that last booth often do not want to be noticed or overheard." She paused, took another sip of water, then continued. "The people who took the end table this time were a man and a woman. The man was local, very large and muscular, dark-skinned, hair in braids. The woman was slender, relatively tall, with dark hair and a pale complexion. She referred to him as 'C' and he called her 'Trish'."

"Both of them had folders with them and they sat down to compare notes. The man, C, said he had an unlisted satellite number from the phone logs of 'her office' that he had not been able to track down, one that had been called the same day they had "visited". The woman, Trish, asked if it were the same one that..." Renée consulted the notes she had scribbled down to help her remember. "... that was on the card 'St. Clair' had given to 'Ramirez'. He said no, that phone number had been disconnected. He exclaimed that he was tempted to dial the unlisted number to see who answered, and Trish said they might still do that. Then she pulled out a picture of 'Wanda Lamour' and multiple pictures of 'Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward'." A gasp went around the room at this news, and most everyone glanced over at Penelope, who sat ramrod straight in her chair, nothing but the paling color of her face giving away her true reaction.

Renée continued without a pause. "Trish indicated that she had gotten the pictures from a fashion magazine and that her Ladyship modeled for François Lemaire and had clothes designed for her by Elaine Wickfen. The name Wickfen was familiar to C, and he tried to remember where he had heard it before. Trish explained that he had heard it from 'the Honorable Senator' who had mentioned that 'St. Clair' looked as if she were wearing a Wickfen design. Trish told her companion to imagine one particular Penelope picture with dark hair and a beauty mark and when he did, he indicated that he saw Wanda Lamour and Penelope as the same person."

A variety of gasps and groans greeted this remark. Penelope still sat upright, her eyes fixed on Renée's picture. The older agent went on. "C asked for more, and Trish gave him something, explaining it was from a man named 'Bryce Southern', who was a 'mate' of hers."

Scott leaned over to Virgil and whispered, "You think it's the same Southern we rescued from that plutonium storehouse?" Virgil shrugged and Scott went back to listening.

"This Southern had gone out to her Ladyship's manor and found her not at home," Renée said. "The cook he saw said she didn't know where her Ladyship was. But this Southern did some digging into the backgrounds of the manor staff. One of them, a man named Aloysius Parker, also known as 'Nosey', was of particular interest since he had a criminal record as a 'cat-burglar and second-story man'. C asked if this man was supposed to be with Lady Penelope when she was attacked by pirates, and Trish confirmed that information."

The agent took another sip, and consulted her notes again. "She went on to say that one of her superiors was puzzled by the diplomatic status of 'Riordan's' coffin. He had sent a man, another 'mate' of Trish's, to follow it to Derry and make notes of who came to the wake and funeral. She reported that most of those who went were law-abiding citizens with the exception of, and C jumped in, providing the name 'Nosey Parker'. She confirmed that, and C asked that if Parker were a friend of the deceased, wouldn't it make sense for him to be at the funeral."

Renée stopped for breath, then continued, much more slowly now, as if she wanted to get every word right. "Trish agreed with C, but said that it wasn't Nosey Parker's attendance that had 'made her mate's eyes pop', as she put it, but the person Parker came with. I could hear her pushing something toward her companion. C began to read aloud, and I quote: 'Scott Tracy, son of billionaire recluse, Jefferson Tracy, leaves black tie benefit dinner'."

There were gasps again, and Scott's face paled a bit. He glanced over at Penelope, who was maintaining her posture, her eyes staring almost hypnotically at Renée's face. The agent continued, "He wanted to know how Scott Tracy would know someone like Parker. Trish explained that Lady Penelope was a great friend of the Tracy family, and that Scott knew 'Riordan' from their days at Oxford. She also mentioned that Scott was at Oxford for a year as part of a special program at Yale, the university from which he received his degree."

She took another sip of water, and blew out a breath. "Trish then gave the opinion that C would find Lady Penelope on the other end of his unlisted number, and that she was hiding out with the Tracys, wherever they lived. C remarked that he had heard about the World Navy finding the Tracys living on an island in the south Pacific somewhere, and Trish said it would be a good hiding place. Then she also told C that when they found Lady Penelope, they would also find Alison St. Clair."

There was a moment of silence, then Jeff asked. "Is that all?"

"Yes, Commander. That is the meat of the conversation."

He nodded, though from her perspective she could not see him. "Good work. Please transcribe your account and send it to me in an email attachment for future reference."

"Yes, sir."

"And thank you, Agent 38, for this very important information. We will follow up on it from this end. However, if you hear anything else on this matter, please forward it along as soon as possible."

"I shall, Commander." Renée looked at Penelope with compassion. "I am so sorry, Pink Lady."

Penelope nodded, not trusting herself to say anything more. Jeff bid Renée goodbye, and cut the connection.

The screen's disappearance broke the paralysis in the room. Several people started talking at once, and Jeff held up his hands for quiet. "I know you all have questions, and we need to discuss how this will affect us, if it does at all. Penelope? Are you all right? Are you up to this?"

Penelope nodded again, then took in a deep breath and let it out. "I shall have to be, shan't I?" she asked quietly. She took a moment to look around the room. "I have some other information pertinent to what Agent 38 just passed on to us. I received a call from an old friend of mine yesterday and returned it this morning. Her name is Addison Kennicot and she is the junior Senator from Great Britain to the World Congress. She was the first person I approached in my guise as Alison St. Clair, a guise that did not deceive her, as I discovered later. I used her as an entry to other people and places, but especially to the Minister of Security. She is also the person I approached about ensuring the safety of Peter Riordan's body. As a result, she has been visited by two detectives, one from the local constabulary, and one from Interpol. They have been investigating my... investigating Alison St. Clair's disappearance from the minister's cay."

"When I spoke to her earlier today, she confided that the police have found traces of blood on the beach at the minister's home, and that the DNA of said blood matches Peter Riordan's." There was another collective groan at this news, and Jeff held up his hand again so that Penelope could continue. He nodded at her and she took another deep breath.

"They wanted to know what her connection to the Riordan family was. The upshot of the whole affair was that she gave them my name." She shook her head. "I told her to refer them to Foxleyheath, but they already seem to have been there and questioned Cook. And they have my satellite phone number as well." She shook her head slowly and looked over at the man behind the desk. "I am at a loss, Jeff. I am not sure which way to turn."

"All right, Penny. We'll figure this out. Questions?"

Scott put up a finger. "Penny? This Bryce Southern; is he the man who Virgil and I rescued from that plutonium store?"

Penelope nodded. "Yes, Scott, he is. He was hired on at Interpol a few months after the British Security Service terminated his employment. I believe he works for their terrorism sub-directorate."

"Would he have been the one to watch the wake and funeral?" Alan asked.

"Agent 38's information seems to indicate otherwise," Jeff said.

"And a good thing, too!" Virgil interjected. "He was still semi-conscious while I was deactivating that robot. He might have remembered your face, Scott."

"Th-That's why it's so, uh, important to have those, uh, visors," Brains said. "To, uh, forestall incidents like this. P-Perhaps they should be, uh, issued to the agents as well."

"No, Brains. I'd rather have our agents working in the background wherever possible," Jeff countered. "The visors would call attention to them. But that's a question for another time, Brains. Right now we need to determine what threat this investigation poses to us and how to minimize or eliminate that threat."

Parker, who stood behind Penelope's chair during the report from Renée, harumphed. "Ay must h'apologize, Mr. Tracy. Ay wuz h'able t' remove Peter's h'in-for-may-shun, h'at least from th' most laykely places, but Ay wuz too late, h'it seems."

"Apology accepted, Parker. You had... _we _had no idea that they had found the blood on the beach or how fast they would move," Jeff said wearily.

"It seems to me," Gordon said thoughtfully, "that the blood on the beach is our main problem. I mean, the story that Penelope gave the press and the police isn't something that can be proven wrong. And it's common knowledge that we're friends with Penelope and vice versa. This 'Trish' brought that out pretty clearly."

"It would be natural for her to visit us after such a shocking experience," Tin-Tin added.

"But... they have the blood evidence," Penelope pointed out. "No one has been able to explain it away, and no one will be able to. Even with Peter's DNA files removed from some of his records, there may still be other places where it may be found. Beyond that, the knowledge of it cannot be removed from the minds of the detectives and others working on the case. That is where the real danger is."

"But what do we do about it?" Alan asked, shrugging, his palms held upward.

There was a tense silence in the room while each tried to think of a way to deal with the situation as it stood. At last Penelope sighed and said, "Perhaps I should... step aside for a time. Go to Bongo-Bongo. Distance myself and draw attention away from you and your family, Jeff. At least until things cool down, as they are almost bound to do. My friend Addison has no idea where I am, and she knows nothing else of interest to tell the detectives that they do not already know." She lowered her head. "Besides, I have had grave misgivings about my position as an agent for International Rescue. Perhaps this is an indication that my time as a secret operative is over."

There was a chorus of "No!', the loudest coming from Virgil, followed a general cacophony of comments made in support of Penelope's remaining as an agent. Jeff stood back and said nothing until the comments had died down. When the group was silent again, he sighed and said, "I need to talk with Penelope alone for a bit. Please, go and get ready for lunch."

They looked at each other uncomfortably, and began to get up, murmuring together. Virgil made a point of reaching out to squeeze Penelope on the shoulder, which caused her to look up and give him a wan smile. Then he left with the others. Penny motioned to Parker, who looked as if he were not going to do as Jeff had asked, and sent him out with the rest.

When the room was clear of all but the two of them, Jeff got up from behind his desk and leaned on the front of it, his hands supporting him as he crossed his legs at the ankles. He gazed at her for a moment then shook his head. "I... I don't know what to say here, Penny. You know how important you are to us, both on a personal and a professional level. Things would not be the same without you. But I've watched you struggle with Peter's death and thought that perhaps it would be better for you to get out from under the pressure this situation has put on you. However, the decision has to be yours."

Penelope raised her eyes to him and Jeff was struck at how incredibly sad she looked. "It's all unraveling, Jeff. I don't know where to turn, or what to do. I feel I must do what I can to protect your secret, but I may have to reveal myself to do so." She looked down, and when she returned her gaze to him, tears were on her cheeks. "I am so torn..."

Jeff stood straight and came over to her, grabbing a box of tissues from one of the small tables as he did. He crouched down to her eye level and handed her one, smiling slightly as she dabbed at her eyes. His face was full of compassion and he put a steadying hand on one of her knees. "I know you're torn, Penny. Right now you have to do what is best for_ you_. You've had a great shock, losing Peter, and if going away for a while is what you need, then that's what you should do. Your place will still be here if and when you want to return."

"But.. what happens if I... if I accidentally reveal your secret, Jeff? I would hate to expose you to the world and especially to your enemies by a careless word..."

Jeff shook his head. "You won't. I know you well enough to say that with certainty. We will find a way to deflect suspicion."

Penny sniffed a bit. "I hope so, Jeff. I truly hope so."

He patted her knee, then stood and offered her his hand. She took it and rose, then stepped close to him, very close, whispering, "Please hold me. Hold me, Jeff."

Hesitantly, he put his arms around her and drew her closer. She came up to just past his chin, and she laid her head on his shoulder, her arms around his neck. He found himself comparing the situation to when Tin-Tin was so upset on the runaway monorail, but there was an important difference. He had always looked on Tin-Tin as a daughter, and she had always treated him as either an employer or perhaps an uncle. It had been easier to hold her, to comfort her. But Penelope was a different story. He was well aware of her attraction to him; there was no missing the signals she gave. But he found he couldn't reciprocate. Some of it, he knew, was Lucille. Even after seven years he still grieved for his wife. But more important was the age difference. He could not see himself involved with a woman young enough to be his daughter; the thought of it made him shudder. And now... there was a third element, one he hadn't been aware of before. He couldn't put his finger on it but he knew it was there. And it made holding her difficult, even if he did it with the purest intentions.

Penelope shifted in his arms, pulling back a bit so she could see his face. He looked back at her, and his eyes widened as she stroked his face slowly along the jawline with a finger. Her lips were parted, and suddenly, without warning, she pressed them to his own, her eyes closing as if to savor the moment. He stiffened involuntarily, his lips pressing together tightly as her hands met behind his head to pull it down to her level. She kept her mouth on his for what seemed to be an eternity, then she pulled back and the hurt in her eyes at his shocked expression cut him to the quick.

She extricated herself from his embrace and turned from him. "I see," she said softly. "I thought perhaps... but no. I see it all, very clearly."

"Penelope, I..." he began to stammer, moving toward her.

She put out a hand behind her to stop him. "I thought perhaps you were over her. I thought you might be attracted to me."

Jeff took a deep breath, trying to retrieve his scattered wits and say something coherent. "Penny, you're a very attractive woman. But... I just can't. I care for you, yes, but... like a daughter. And a friend. Not... that way," he murmured. "I'm sorry. This is such bad timing..."

"No, Jeff. It's _perfect_ timing," Penny said, her back to him, her arms coming up to hug herself. "Just one more reason why I should leave here and go on to Bongo-Bongo." She dropped her arms and turned around, her chin held high and a pained smile on her face. She held out her hand, a brittle mask of polite detachment now in place. "I will make the arrangements with Parker right now. May we borrow one of your jets? Or would you prefer one of the boys to fly us?"

Her question, and the sudden change in her demeanor, caught him off-guard. He blindly took her hand as he spluttered, "I... I'll make the arrangements..."

"Good." She withdrew her hand, and turned to walk toward the study. "May I leave FAB-1 here for repair? I shan't need it at Bongo-Bongo."

"Of course," he said, beginning to recover his wits. He fell into step behind her, his mind trying to catch up. The whole incident was moving too fast for him; he had hoped to tell her how he felt on_ his _terms and when she was on a more even keel emotionally, not blurt it out like an idiot when she was confused and hurting.

She was on the steps to the study now, and she stopped to turn towards him. "I hope you realize that this... unfortunate episode, in no way will affect our relationship vis-a-vis International Rescue. I will do everything in my power to shield you and your family from discovery." Gazing down at him from the top step, she sighed and said, "Perhaps someday you will put your grief aside. I hope you do; you have so much to offer, Jeff." She glanced down and for once the cool_ façade _cracked and a small sob sounded in her voice. "I just wish... it could have been me." With that, she whipped around and passed hurriedly through the study.

Jeff stood at the bottom of the steps, still stunned at the encounter. He huffed out a breath and slowly returned to his desk. Throwing himself into his chair, he reached into the storage space behind his desk and pulled out his Scotch. He held the bottle up to the light before he poured himself the requisite two-fingers' worth and downed it in one long swallow._ Need a new bottle, _he thought as he poured himself another libation. He tossed this back, too, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he brought his fingers up to touch his tingling lips, and a memory rose, one of another recent kiss. Warm lips had touched his briefly, and his own had responded in a soft farewell that had come and gone without thought, so natural had been its occurrence.

Suddenly, as if struck by a blow, he knew what the new, third element was in his rejection of Penelope's advances. He squeezed his eyes closed tightly, put his elbows on his desktop and dropped his forehead into the heels of his hands. "Oh God," he whispered, shaking his head in stunned awareness. "It's Lou."


	28. Making Arrangements

_Author's Note: _Lou returns! Penelope seals her decision, and Virgil gets an opportunity. Oh, and Claudette? Here's the answer to your question about the cats and the vet from the beginning of the story! ;) My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading and being a sounding board. No reviews on 27 yet, but then, I'm putting these up pretty fast! Rolling right along.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

"Ah can't b'leeve that y'all gave that poor vet such trouble," Cindy Lou muttered to her two cats as she removed them from the van. Midnight and Snowball kept up their pitiful cries even as she hauled them inside the house. "Foah pity's sake, all he did was give yew a shot oah two!" 

Setting down the carriers, she let Snowball out first. The white cat made a beeline for the water dispenser and began to lap at the liquid. Cindy Lou's nose scrunched up in an unbecoming way as she gingerly took the soiled carrier out to the back stoop for later cleaning. Returning to kitchen, she noticed that Midnight's usual loud "mrrroaw!" was getting louder and more insistent the longer he was in the carrier. She shook her head, and opened up the container. Midnight shot out, heading for the kibble while his mistress put his carrier away in its proper place. "An' jes' think, t'morrah Ah get t' take th' othah two," she muttered under her breath to the two felines. "Ah hope they don' give theyah vet th' same trouble y'all gave yoahs."

She was pulling out the cleaning supplies to tackle the dirty job ahead of her when the doorbell chimed. "Who can that be?" she murmured, setting the heavy duty rubber gloves down on the counter. Striding to the front door, she heard the chime again as she made her way across the living room. "Ah'm comin', Ah'm comin'!" she said aloud, irritated that whoever was at the door had no patience. She peered out through the beveled glass panes set in the upper part of the door and saw an unfamiliar man standing there, hands in his pockets. _Hmm. Early forties, brown hair, balding, about six foot tall, bit of a paunch but not really fat, casual dresser, a bit fidgety, keeps looking across the street and has his hands in his pockets... I wonder what he wants. Only one way to find out._

She opened the door as far as the chain bolt would allow. "Hello?"

The man brightened as he turned to see her. "Hi, there, Ms., uh, Kelly. My name is Richard Hickerson, and my mother lives across the street over there. Uh, she... uh, I was visiting Mother and thought I'd come over, y'know, be neighborly and introduce myself and all."

_Voice is okay, not deep but not tenor. He sure is nervous though! Keeps looking back... ah, I see. Nosy old biddy, watching through those curtains... _Cindy Lou released the chain bolt and opened the door a bit more to step out on the front stoop. Richard moved back slightly to make room for her, looking her up and down slowly as he did. She held out her hand. "Pleased t' make yoah acquaintance, Mistah Hickerson. Yew'll 'scuse me foah not askin' yew in; Ah jest brought two o' mah kitties home from th' vet, an' well, they ahr not behavin' themselves." _As good as an excuse as any._

He took her hand, and shook it, holding it longer than was strictly necessary. "Oh, that's okay," he said, his eyes traveling the length of her again. He tore his gaze away to glance around at the yard where the new growth of shrubs and grass was beginning to show. "I was wondering if you needed any help around your place," he began, waving a hand toward the lawn. "You know, mowing, raking, mulching, cleaning out gutters, that sort of thing. I'm really quite handy." He grinned and that grin, coupled with the look he gave her, made her scan break out in uncomfortable goosebumps.

_Handy? I just bet you are! Let's play the southern belle, shall we?_ "That's very nahce o' yew, Mistah Hickerson. Does yoah wife know yew offah yoah... services to yoah neighbors?" she asked coquettishly. A movement up the street caught her eye and she thought, _Yes! Salvation approaches! Have to time this just right!_

Richard didn't quite know what to say. "Well, uh, no, Ms. Kelly. You see, I'm not married," he finally replied. "Nope, never married. You? Are you married, Ms. Kelly?"

"That's quahte a personal question, Mistah Hickerson," she said, raising an eyebrow and letting a touch of disdain color her voice. She followed this with a dramatic sigh. "But no, Ah'm a widow. Mah husband dahd in service to his country." _Come on, kid! Hurry up! I need you to help me out here!_

"Oh, you must get pretty lonely then, huh? Maybe you and I could go for a cup of coffee sometime or something?" he offered, smiling.

_I'd wipe that smarmy smile off your face in a second if I thought it wouldn't break my cover!_ Cindy Lou thought furiously. What she said was, "No, Ah can't say that Ah'm lonely. After all, Ah do have mah kitties. They ahr a treasure an' a comfort."

"I'm sure they are," he said, putting a hand on the wall, leaning against it. "Still, it might be nice to get to know one another better."

"Well, Mistah Hickerson, Ah'm really quahte content with th' status quo, so t' speak. And as foah yoah offah of yard work, Ah already have an agreement with Rahy'n ovah theah." She raised her voice and called, "Rahy'n! Oh, Rahy'n!"

Ryan Pierce, on his way home from an errand to the corner store for his grandmother, slowed. Over the past few days, he'd gotten a friendly greeting from Ms. Kelly whenever she saw him walking home, and he had made it a point to ask how Snowball was. So he wasn't surprised to see her waving at him from her front porch. However, he _was_ surprised to see who she was with. _Wonder if she needs some back up or protection from old Dick the Hick? _he thought. Shifting the bag of groceries from one arm to another, he waved, then turned his steps toward her house. "Hey, Ms. Kelly! How's Snowball? Hi, Mr. Hickerson." He greeted the man with significantly less enthusiasm than he did the woman as he climbed the stairs to the little porch, making Richard remove his arm and step further away from the door a bit to make room for him.

"Snowball's jes' fahne, Rahy'n," she answered. "Though she got her shots today an' she was a bit orn'ry about that."

"I'd be ornery, too, if I got shots," Ryan replied with a chuckle. "What did you need?"

_Back me up here, kid,_ she thought as she said, "Well, Ah jes' wanted t' remahnd yew about cuttin' the lawn this weekend. Ah need yew heah braht an' early on Saturday mornin'."

_Okay, now I understand. Dick the Hick's been trying to put the make on her. His line about the yard work is sooo lame! I'll play along._ "Sure, Ms. Kelly. I'll be here. Thanks for reminding me."

_Thank you, Ryan!_ "Yoah welcome, Rahy'n. Now yew'd better run along home an' see to yoah grandma. Mistah Hickerson was jes' leavin'."

"Yes, ma'am," Ryan replied with unaccustomed politeness. He jogged down the steps, and stopped to wave. "Bye, Ms. Kelly! See you on Saturday!" _I'll get these groceries home and double back to see what happened._

Richard had been watching the interchange with growing dismay, and he was caught off guard by Cindy Lou's last sentence. He moved back into his previous spot, but found his quarry opening the door, preparing to go inside.

"It was nahce t' meet yew, Mistah Hickerson. Always nahce t' meet th' neighbors. Unfortunately, Ah have a dirty job t' do an' Ah'd best git to it," Cindy Lou said with a smile, motioning toward the inside of the house. "You see, Snowball soiled her carrier an' if'n Ah don't take cayah of it now... well, you can imagine how much worse it would be t' clean later. Y'all have a good evening, Mistah Hickerson."

"Uh, yes, good evening, Ms. Kelly," said the befuddled man. Cindy Lou stepped quickly inside and he suddenly found himself standing alone on her little front porch.

She resisted the urge to lean up against the inside of her door and wipe her brow. Instead, she hustled back through the house, putting as much distance between her and her new "neighbor" as she could. Going back to the kitchen, she gathered up her cleaning supplies and a bucket of hot water, then settled down on the lighted back stoop to clean the dirty cat carrier. Dusk was turning slowly into night when she started her task, but it didn't keep her from glimpsing the stealthy shadow that dropped over the privacy fence at the back of her yard. She was instantly alert and kept a hand near the spray bottle of cleaner, watching the intruder with her peripheral vision as she continued to work on the carrier. _If that's you, Mr. Hickerson, and you decided not to take "no" for an answer, you're going to get one very unpleasant surprise! _Fortunately for both of them, the figure didn't skulk around the edges of the yard, but came toward her in a straightforward manner, and just as he got close enough for her to recognize his silhouetted figure, he hissed, "Hey, Ms. Kelly! Is he gone?"

"Yes, Rahy'n. Ah got rid o' him."

"Good." Ryan came into the light, and parked himself on the concrete patio to watch her work. "Which cat did that?" he asked, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"Snowball. It's a habit o' hers," Cindy Lou explained. She stopped her work to smile at him. "Thank yew so much foah comin' to mah rescue theyah, Rahy'n. Ah thought Ah'd _nevah_ get rid o' him." She cocked her head at her young visitor. "Who is he, anyway?"

"Dick the Hick? He's Mrs. Hickerson's youngest son. He doesn't live with her but comes around once or twice a month so she'll do his laundry and give him money. She's been trying to pawn him off on some unsuspecting woman for a long time."

Cindy Lou chuckled. " 'Dick the Hick', huh? Who calls him that?"

Ryan waved his hand to indicate the neighborhood. "Most everybody around here. But me and my friends, we call him something else."

"Do Ah dayah ask?" she questioned, grinning.

The teen colored a bit. "Well, just sorta turn it around a bit..."

Cindy Lou said slowly, "Hick the Di..." She trailed off as she began to laugh. "Oh, Rahy'n! That's clevah!" She repeated the name. "Ah lahke it! What a hoot!" Pointing a finger at the boy, she said, "You ahr a rogue! Now Ah'll nevah be able t' call him 'Mistah Hickerson' agin!"

Ryan laughed, too. "Well, I came back to see if you were all right. He can get pretty pushy." He paused. "And I wanted to see if you were serious about the lawn job."

Cindy Lou took a long look at her companion. "Thank yew foah checkin' on me. That's very sweet o' yew. As foah th' lawn job, yeah, Ah could use th' help. Besides, Ah'm shure that ol' Mrs. Hickerson'll be watchin' t' see if Ah was tellin' th' truth. What would yew chahge?"

"Hmm. Fifty dollars? I'd rake and weed, too," the teen offered. "And you're right about ol' Mrs. Hickerson. She's probably already been on the phone to my grandma about it."

"Really? What will yoah grandma say?"

"Oh, I've got it covered. Told her that I had the job and forgot to mention it before."

"You ahr a cocky one, Rahy'n," the woman said, shaking her head and smiling. "Well, Ah 'spect yew to weed an' rake anyway, but... how about thirty? Aftah all, Ah do have a robot, so yew'll not be doin' a whole lot o' actual mowin'." She held her hands out, miming the use of a remote control. "It'll be jes' sitting in th' shade an' playin' with a little cahr."

"Really? You have a robot? Cool!" Ryan exclaimed. He raised an eyebrow. "Thirty-five then."

Cindy Lou raised an eyebrow and chuckled, then pulled off her soapy right rubber glove and held out her hand. "Deal. Yew drahve a hahd bahgain, Mistah Rahy'n."

He took her hand and shook it. "Okay, deal. I'll be here Saturday," Ryan said, rising to his feet. "See you later, Ms. Kelly."

"Latuh, Rahy'n." The boy was already halfway to the drive when she called out again. "Oh, Rahy'n?"

"Yes, Ms. Kelly?"

"Next tahme, don't come ovah th' fence." She smiled, but her eyes looked very serious. "Ah don't lahke people sneakin' up on me."

The teen nodded. "Okay, Ms. Kelly. No problem." He turned and jogged down the walk as Cindy Lou put the finishing touches on Snowball's carrier and brought it into the house to dry.

xxxx

Virgil came to the lounge at his father's bidding. He found Jeff standing in front of the windows, staring off to sea, a cup of coffee in his hand. He glanced over at the desk to see that the lunch tray Jeff had unexpectedly ordered was barely touched.

"You wanted me, Dad?"

"Yes, Virgil." Jeff's voice was flat and emotionless as he spoke. "Please prep Tracy One for a trip to Bongo-Bongo. I've already filed the flight plan. Lady Penelope is leaving."

"Leaving?" Virgil asked, incredulous. "When you sent everyone out of the room, I thought you'd be trying to convince her to stay!"

"That was never my intention, Virgil. I wanted to let her know her options were still open and that if she really felt she needed the space to decide, it was hers." The older man sighed, blowing a deep breath out his nose, and took another sip of coffee. "Then... things got complicated."

Virgil came closer. Jeff didn't turn to him, just sipped his coffee until the younger man finally asked, "Complicated? How?"

Jeff finally turned his gaze to his son. Virgil was shocked to see how lined his father's face looked and how weary. The older man took a deep breath and said simply, "She kissed me, Virgil." He shook his head slowly, his eyes turning back to the sea. "She kissed me, and like the fool that I am, I didn't react. Not like she expected me to. I stiffened up, and... that told her all she needed to know." Another sip of coffee, then, "I tried to explain, tried to give her my reasons. But I hurt her, son, hurt her very deeply. I knew it would come to this eventually, but not now of all times. Not when she was already vulnerable and in pain." He paused and glanced down. "I hope someday she can forgive me for that. I hope I'll be able to forgive myself."

Virgil stood still for a moment, processing what his father had just said. At last he broke the silence. "So, you're sending me to take her to her ranch." When his father had nodded, he asked sharply, "Why?"

"Because she might need a sympathatic ear, a friend she can turn to. You are that to her, if nothing else, " Jeff explained. "And it would give you the opportunity, if you feel the time and situation are right, to tell her how you feel about her."

His son snorted. "Yeah, right, Dad. As if I'm going to tell her how I feel with Parker breathing down my neck."

"It's your choice, Virgil. If you don't want to take her, I'll ask one of your brothers."

The two men were silent for a moment, then Virgil nodded. "I'll prep Tracy One."

"Good." Jeff sipped from his nearly-empty coffee cup. Virgil sighed, and left the study.

When he was gone, Jeff turned and looked over at his desk and the vidphone that sat behind it. _Do I call Lou or not?_

xxxx

" 'Ere ye go, Mr. Brains," Parker said, handing the engineer the laptop. "Th' program h'is ready an' loaded h'on h'a disk." He handed him the disk he had burned.

"Th-Thank you, uh, Parker," Brains said absently from the computer where he was working. "I'll see that it gets to the, uh, proper place."

"H'If ye 'ave h'any h'other work layke that, Mr. Brains, Ay'll be glad t' h'oblige," the chauffeur said cheerfully. "Ye'll 'ave t' send h'it t' me bay h'email, though. Ay don' know when Milady will be back this way again."

"She's leaving?" Tin-Tin cried, suddenly concerned.

"Yus, Miss Tin-Tin, she h'is. H'As soon h'as one o' th' jets h'is ready."

"But why?" the Malaysian girl asked, saving her file and approaching the chauffeur. "I thought Mr. Tracy was going to convince her to stay!"

"Ay'm sure Ay couldn't say, miss," Parker said. And he couldn't; he didn't know what had fueled this precipitous departure. Her Ladyship hadn't told him and somehow he felt that she wouldn't, either.

"Do you think she'd mind if I put in a good word?" Tin-Tin asked.

Parker shrugged. "Ay don' think it could hurt, Miss Tin-Tin. Ay b'leeve she's h'in 'er room, packin' up 'er handbag an' such."

"Thank you, Parker. Brains, I'll be back soon." And before the engineer could respond, she was out the door and on her way up to the villa.

"Well, Ay'll say goodbaye naow, Mr. Brains, an' see that Milady's bags h'are packed h'in th' jet." The chauffeur moved over to where the engineer was working, and stuck out his hand.

Brains looked up at him and took the hand to shake it. "G-Goodbye, Parker. I, uh, hope you and Lady Penelope will return s-soon."

"Me, too, mate," Parker muttered softly as he left the lab, taking the monorail further down into the bowels of the underground complex. Brains sighed, slipped the disk into his machine, and fired Parker's work off in an attachment to Deirdre.

xxxx

Tin-Tin reached the guest room just in time to see Penelope emerge from it. The aristocrat put on a bright smile when she saw Tin-Tin. "Tin-Tin, I am so very glad I will have chance to say farewell to you. I hope you will pass on my regrets to the rest of the family."

"Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?" the dark-haired beauty asked, falling in step with the blonde. "Why are you leaving so suddenly, without saying goodbye?"

Penelope took a deep breath to steady herself. She was sure that her makeup was covering the redness of her eyes. After leaving Jeff, she'd had a brief cry, then turned her attention to the matter at hand: leaving Tracy Island as quickly as was feasibly possible. She had hoped to be spared any teary-eyed farewell scenes, or any explanations, but that hope had been dashed with her friend's arrival. She was aware of Tin-Tin's concerned brown eyes on her as they walked down the corridor and tried to marshal her thoughts so she could put the best face on the matter. Finally, she stopped mid-stride. Tin-Tin continued for a few paces then, realizing that her friend wasn't at her side, turned around and made her way back to Lady Penelope.

The aristocrat put her hands on Tin-Tin's shoulders and looked into those dark brown eyes. "My dear Tin-Tin! It is so very hard for me to tell you why I am leaving. But since Peter Riordan's death, I have struggled the question of remaining an agent for International Rescue. I have discovered aspects of my character that I am not sure I like. With this investigation closing in on my identity, I feel it is inmy best interests, and in the interests of International Rescue, to leave for a while. Perhaps to actually live the life of my 'cover', a pampered lady of society."

She dropped her arms and glanced downward. "Sometimes I wonder which persona I was really pretending to be, the secret agent or the spoiled aristocrat." She took a fortifying breath and gazed up at Tin-Tin again, a smile on her face. "Perhaps I will discover it in time. No matter. For the moment, I am going to Bongo-Bongo to deflect attention from the Tracys. You are welcome to visit there or at Foxleyheath whenever you like. And please, do keep in touch. One positive lesson I have learned from this experience is the importance of good friends."

Tin-Tin smiled back tremulously and embraced Penelope. "I will miss you!" she cried.

The aristocrat returned the embrace briefly. "Now, now," she cautioned, wagging a finger at the younger woman. "No tears, please. This is why I was going to sneak out in the middle of the day, carrying off the silver and the linens!" The quip made Tin-Tin laugh through her tears, and Penelope chuckled with her. "Walk down to the hangar with me." As they fell into step, Penny asked, "May I count on you to tender my farewells to the rest of the family?"

"Of course, Penelope," the Malaysian replied. Together the two of them took the lift to the monorail, and on to the small craft hangar.

xxxx

"Ee oh ahhh, ee oh ahh ay! Ee oh ahhh, ee oh ahh ay! Cuentame que te paso. Cuentame que te paso!" Cindy Lou sang as she mamboed through her house, the "Speak Up Mambo" by the Manhattan Transfer playing loudly in her office. She was careful not to spill any of the red wine from the goblet in her hand as she shuffled to the Latin beat. When she entered her office, she lowered the volume to from a dull roar to something less ear splitting and slipped into her chair, still bouncing along with the music. Bringing her sleeping computer to life, she began to check her email boxes. The song changed over to "Besame Mucho" by Xavier Cugat. She sang along a little, using the only words she knew at the place where the music indicated they must appear. "Besame, besame muuuucho!" Moofums, who had been curled up on her desk, stood, stretched, and gave her mistress an alarmed look before she vacated the premises.

"Critics! All yew cats ahr critics!" the woman shouted after the departing feline. Chuckling, she settled back down to her task. "Ah!" she exclaimed in delight, seeing Dee's email and attachment. "Heah's th' goods! Finally! Now t' delivah it t' ground zero!"

With a few keystrokes, she burned the attachment to a disk without opening it. Then she composed an email message, using the email address he had originally sent it to.

_"To the officer in charge of the investigation into the death of Anthony Cho._

_"I received this email the day of Mr. Cho's death. I was unaware of his passing at the time nor did I know he had been murdered or I would have forwarded it sooner. I know it's not much to go on, but perhaps it will give you some clues to help your investigation. I, however, must remain anonymous. Good luck."_

She made a copy of the email and slipped it into a drafts folder for later use. Then she attached the deadly, upgraded termite directly from the disk, gave it the title of AnthonyChosLastWords, and with a small smile, emailed it to her old Interpol box. She knew the missive would be returned to her as her box was deactivated when she retired, but she hoped it would be out there long enough to attract the attention of the scanner.

"Now all Ah can do is wait," she murmured. She went back to checking her email boxes.

After a few minutes, an mailer-daemon message popped up, indicating the return of the email and the attachment. But she didn't notice. She was staring at an email from a friend in North Carolina, one of the two men who ran the bed and breakfast near her old home.

_"Dear Lou,_

_"I'm sorry that this is so late, but things have been very hectic lately and truthfully, it slipped my mind until just now. _

_"You asked us to let you know if anyone came looking for you, and a few days ago, someone did. It wasn't the blond that you described, though he did have a very odd voice which made me think it might have been. He was good looking, roughly 6' 2", very well built, with black hair. Couldn't see his eyes because he wore shades. He wanted to know if you'd left a forwarding address, phone number, or email address. When I said you hadn't, he seemed to accept it and drove away in a rental car._

_"Again, I'm sorry this is so after the fact. I hope it gets to you in time to do some good, and that you're well and happy in your new surroundings. We miss you, especially Bruno, who keeps wandering over to your old property to see if he can smell the cats or cadge a treat. When you eventually sell the place, I hope we get a neighbor as helpful as you were. We miss you!_

_"Your friend, Trey"_

Cindy Lou sat back and took a big gulp of her wine, a troubled look on her face. _A strange voice but black hair? Could be that Franks is incognito, or that someone else entirely is curious about me. _She lifted the goblet to her lips again. _Thing is, what do I do about it? I'm fairly sure he's not going to find me here, but... there are Shelly and Dee and possibly other friends I told him about when we were partners. Do I warn them and possibly scare them? _She shook her head as she tossed off the rest of her wine. _Dee's okay; I just got that email from her. I'd better email Shelly at least. Put her on her guard. _She shook her head. _No, I'd better call. I'll email Dee. _Glancing over at the clock, she made a face. _Hmm. With her schedule she's probably already in bed. But I'll leave a message with Rachel. She'll understand._

But Rachel wasn't the one to answer the phone when she called. Her brother-in-law Chuck did. She and Chuck had always had a strained relationship, primarily because of her work, which he strenuously disapproved of. He felt her frequent traveling meant that he and his wife shouldered an unfair share of the responsibility for his father-in-law's care.

"Hey, Chuck," Lou said cheerily, dropping her Cindy Lou drawl. "Is Shelly still awake?"

"No, Lucinda, she's not, and I think you know that, too." Chuck's voice sounded irritated. "Why haven't you activated the picture? Why are you calling voice only?"

"Because I'm using my satellite phone and I've misplaced my earphone," she replied, reining in her matching irritation. "Didn't think you wanted to see a picture of my ear lobe."

"Oh, all right." Chuck seemed mollified. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, if Shelly's not awake, then could I speak to Rachel? I can't find something I need, and I've checked everywhere. She might remember where it got packed." It was the only excuse she could think of on the spur of the moment.

"Rachel's not here. She's out with some friends. I expect her home soon. Can she call you then? I can leave her a message."

Lou thought this over for a moment, and made a decision. "No, that's okay. But if you could leave a message for Shelly so she'll call me in the morning from work, that would be great."

"Okay, I'll leave her the message," Chuck said amiably. "She has your number, right?"

"No, she doesn't," Lou replied, biting her lower lip. "Let me give it to you." She rattled off a series of numbers. "That's for my new satellite phone."

"Don't know why you had to change providers, Lou," Chuck's voice now held a hint of disapproval.

"Well, you know me. New place, new phone. I wanted a clean slate, Chuck," Lou said, trying to sound breezy.

Chuck hrumphed and read the number back. "Yes, that's it, Chuck. Thanks for leaving the message. I appreciate it."

"When will you be up to visit your dad?" he asked suddenly. Lou groaned internally. _Should have seen that one coming!_

"Pretty soon, Chuck, pretty soon. Just need to get established around here and find a good cat sitter." Before he could ask where "here" was, she said quickly, "Speaking of the little devils, Spot just barfed on the rug. I've got to go. Talk to you later, Chuck! Bye!" She cut off the call and sat back with an audible, "Whew!"

She looked at the email from Trey again and shook her head._ At least I know Shelly is safe for now and once I hear from her, I'll tell her what to look for and she can be on alert. But I'd better email Dee right away._

xxxx

Jeff watched impassively as Tracy One took to the air, sailing into the clear blue sky over the turquoise waters that surrounded their island. He felt numb, not only from the built up revelations of the day and Penelope's departure, but also due to the application of two more shots of Scotch. He had gone down to the storage area they called "the wine cellar" himself and selected the oldest bottle of Bushmill's he could find to bring back up to replace the one he had emptied with his third glass. The new bottle was stronger, and smoother, and something in the back of his head told him he needed to go easy on it. So he limited himself to one shot.

That one shot was still in his hand, half-imbibed. He tossed it back and grimaced, the liquor making its warm way down his gullet. He stared at the thing in his other hand: his satellite phone. _What time is it in New York right now? Would Lou be up?_

He shook his head slowly. _Doesn't matter. I want... I **need **to talk to her. She's the only one I can talk to who isn't in the thick of this. But then... she **is** part of this, isn't she? She just doesn't know it yet._

Putting the glass on the floor near the door to the balcony, Jeff went outside, heading for the Round House, where he hoped to have some privacy for his talk with Lou.


	29. Truths Revealed

_Author's Note: _Attention all Virgil fangirls! The moment you have been dreading has arrived! 'Nuff said! My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading and being a sounding board.

**Math Girl: **Three reviews in a row! Wow:) You have deduced a couple of things very well here. I don't know if Jeff will be able to straighten out the mess that Penelope has created; she may have to do that on her own. Yes, Jeff has figured out he has feelings for Lou, but what they are and how strong he has yet to discover. If you're wondering who Wanda Lamour was, she was Penelope's torch singer cover at the Paradise Peaks hotel in the episode, _The Cham-Cham_. And we see exactly what the men say and how the ladies react to it in this chapter.

**FrankieC: **Thanks for the good words on 26 and 27. I'm glad the funeral met expectations. Yes, Penny has made a mess of things and she's gone off to be Bo-Peep again. I expect large clumps of hair and pounding on the computer, plus some scorching mail from you after this chapter! ;)

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

"Hey, Penelope?" 

"Yes, Virgil?"

"Would you come up to the cockpit and keep me company?"

Penelope sighed. She expected another scene like the one with Tin-Tin, full of questions to which she had no real answers._ Still, he is a friend, and a good listener. And he would respect my desire to refrain from discussion of the matter. _She got up from her seat, eliciting a worried glance from Parker. "I am coming, Virgil."

She went forward to the cockpit, closing the door behind her. Virgil gave her a welcoming smile, then turned back to the windshield as she settled herself into the co-pilot's seat and fastened the safety straps, then put on her sunglasses and headset. She risked a glance at her companion. _Each of the boys have Jeff's stamp on them, but Virgil least of all. He makes me wish I had known Lucille so I could appreciate how much like her he is. I am certain he received more from her than just his looks and talent. She must have been a very good listener, as well._

The cockpit was silent for a time, companionably so, then Virgil broke it by asking, "So, are you looking forward to going to Bongo-Bongo?"

"I suppose so," she answered quietly. "I am sure that the police will find me there eventually, but better there than Tracy Island."

He nodded slowly. "Is everything ready for you there?"

"It will be. Parker called ahead to apprise them of our arrival." She could just imagine what her caretakers were doing to scurry around and prepare for her visit. It wasn't something that she usually thought about; for her, it was always call ahead, then go, leaving the preparations to others. _I seldom get my hands dirty, in any sense of the word, _she realized, looking at her actual appendages. _Until Viktor asked me to hold that bandage... _She shuddered, and tried to turn her thoughts elsewhere.

Virgil chose to misinterpret the shudder. "Is it too cold in here?" he asked solicitously.

"No, Virgil, but thank you for asking," was her reply. She glanced over at him again. "I confess to some curiosity. What did your father tell you about my departure?"

He took a moment to gather his thoughts. "He said that you needed space to decide what to do." Turning his hidden gaze to her, he said wryly, "I must admit that when he asked us all to leave I thought he was going to try and talk you into staying. But he said that was never his intention."

"No. He made it clear that if I needed the time to decide, I could take it and my place would still be available when I wanted to return," Penelope explained. She fell silent, not wanting to explain about her other reason for leaving so quickly. _I made a big enough fool of myself with Jeff; I do not want to bruit it about. I hope Jeff was discreet enough not to tell anyone else._

_How do I approach this?_ Virgil asked himself. _I want so much to tell her, but is this the right time? I don't want to make the same mistake that Dad did, and yet... when else will I be able to tell her? _Screwing his courage up to the sticking point, he began, "Ah, Penelope?"

"Yes, Virgil?" She sounded weary, and was struggling to keep up the veneer of politeness.

"I don't know how to put this really, but... Dad told me there was another reason that you were leaving, and why it was so sudden." Virgil flinched internally when he heard her groan softly.

"He did? That was rather impolite of him. I thought perhaps he would be gentleman enough to keep it to himself, not tell of my foolishness to all and sundry." Her voice had gone from soft and weary to soft and sarcastic. "Did he announce it over the loudspeaker so the whole household knows? What a laugh your brothers must be having at my expense."

"That's not fair, Penny, and you know it. He didn't tell everybody, and he won't. He only told me. He feels really bad about how things happened, too," Virgil replied stoutly. "You caught him off guard with that kiss, you know."

"Yes, I do. That was very clear from his reaction," Penelope shot back, showing a bit more spirit now. "I was in need of his comfort and what I received was less than comforting." She glared at Virgil now. "Why do you think he would refrain from telling the others? He told _you_, did he not? What makes you so much more special than your brothers?"

Virgil closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Then he opened his eyes, took off his sunglasses, and turned to her, his face as serious as his voice was soft. "He told me for the same reason he asked _me_ to take you to Bongo-Bongo instead of Scott or Gordon or Alan. He told me, Penelope, because he knows how... how..." He swallowed heavily and glanced down, whispering, "He knows how I feel about you."

Penelope's mouth dropped open in shock. Virgil continued, gazing over at her again with his warm brown eyes. "I had hoped you would have seen it for yourself. There were so many little ways I tried to let you know. But I didn't dare come out and _say_ anything because I... I saw the way you looked at Dad, the way you acted around him, and I thought that maybe, on some level, he was reciprocating. It all came to a head when he sent you to Unity City to look for that Franks guy. We argued, more than once, about putting you in danger, and he asked me point-blank if I... if I were in love with you." Another deep breath, let out slowly. "I said that yes, I was, and had been for a long time. I didn't understand how he felt about you until just a little while ago, when he told me what had happened, and I'm still not clear on it all. But he wanted to give me the opportunity to say my piece, if the time were right." He squared his shoulders, and reached over to cup her face in his hand, his voice rich and full of affection. "So, I'm saying it. I love you, Penelope."

Penelope's face had gotten progressively paler as he spoke. Her eyes had widened; they bored into his. Her mouth was still open, and it looked as if she were holding her breath. When he had finished speaking, she took in a deep breath and let it out through her mouth in a shaky huff. She brought her lips together and swallowed heavily, then shook her head quickly several times. "This is... no... this is just too much!" she exclaimed, her voice sounding as if she were about to cry. She pushed his hand away and began unfastening her safety straps and removing her headset with fumbling fingers. Now unencumbered, she rose, trembling, and blindly reached for the door to the cockpit. "I... I need to... get away, to think."

"Penny!" Virgil cried, reaching out to grasp her arm. But she was already out the door and back into the passenger cabin before he could catch her.

The hatch slammed shut, and Virgil faced forward again. He smacked his fist on the control panel. "Why did I even open my damn mouth?"

xxxx

Jeff let himself into the Round House. When he had first built the place, it was supposed to be utilized at guest accommodations, in case they had some kind of big party and needed the room. The Cliff House had been constructed with a similar idea, but neither of them was being used for the purpose he had first envisioned. For one thing, they hadn't exactly been giving big parties since they had moved to the island. For another, there was no way to get to the Cliff House except from inside Thunderbird Two's hangar, which rather limited its use as a guest house. Still, the fire and flight control rooms were built beneath there, and the boys found the game rooms and the patio enticing enough to keep the building somewhat in use.

Not so the Round House. There was no access to that particular building except from the outside, down a pumice-covered path from the main villa. It was usually reached by a small golf cart which could pull one of the anti-gravity floats behind it, should luggage need to be hauled over there. Today, however, Jeff decided to walk. The afternoon was getting on, and he felt the need to stir his blood. Now sweaty and feeling very tired, he found himself in the air-conditioned common room that faced the main house.

He slumped down on a sofa, and rested his head against the back, letting his heartbeat return to normal after his brisk walk. Perhaps he had dozed off a bit in that position, he wasn't sure. He only knew that he came to his senses after a short passage of time, and remembered just why he had come to the deserted place. Drawing his phone out of his shirt pocket, he plugged in his earphone and speed-dialed Lou's number.

Lou was busy at her computer, writing warning emails to some of her friends, telling them about the man who might or might not be Franks, while keeping an eye on the anti-IR website she had come to loathe. She knew that it would take time for the altered termite to corrupt all the data while depositing its viral load into the operating system, and that there was no guarantee that the email scanning program they were using would pick up her time bomb at all. _Just my luck that they'd be scanning for things with the words "International Rescue" in the title, _she groused. _I may have been too clever for my own good here. If I don't see results in twenty-four hours, I'll send it again with another header._

Her vidphone rang and she turned to it with irritation. "Cindy Lou Kellay, heah. Who may Ah ask is callin'?"

"Lou? It's me, Jeff."

"Jeff! Wait! Just a second." She dropped the drawl and hurried to finish the email she was composing. "There!" she said, turning to the vidphone screen. "You caught me in the middle of something. But it's done now and I can focus my attention on you."

"Your attention on me," he echoed. "I like that." He paused for a moment. "Anything I should know about? How's that business with the... with the... whatchamacallit website going?"

Lou frowned at him. "Jeff, where are you?"

He sighed. "In the Round House. Thought I'd have some privacy here."

Lou mouthed "the round house" to herself. _Oookay, I think I remember seeing that building. _"You look pretty rough," she commented. "Are you smashed?"

Jeff shook his head. "No, no. Not smashed. Just... feeling no pain, that's all."

"What brought this on?" she asked, leaning one elbow on the desk top and putting her cheek on her fist.

"Lots of things. Penny's being investigated. Damn detectives looking for her. She's had a hard enough time with Peter dying, for pity's sake! Then I go and be a bastard to her and off she goes! Just like a little bird!" Jeff's hand made a fluttery motion that carried off the edge of the screen.

"I can't see how you could possibly be a bastard to anyone, Jeff," Lou remarked, shaking her propped up head.

He pointed a finger at the screen that held her picture, and frowned at her. "You don't know me well enough, Lou. I can be a real bastard when I want to, and sometimes even if I don't want to. Like with Penny."

"So, what happened?" Lou coaxed, swapping her head from one supporting arm to the other.

Jeff sighed heavily again. "Well, we were going over what those damned detectives found out and she thought maybe she should just go away for a bit. She's got this ranch in Australia with tons of sheep. She likes to count them, don't know why. Well, anyway, we were talking and she was upset and she asked me to hold her and I did. But it felt kinda... I dunno... uncomfortable. Then she kissed me. Right on the lips! And what did I go and do?"

"I dunno, Jeff," Lou said, suddenly very interested in Jeff's reply. "What did you go and do?"

"Nothin'. Absolutely nothin'. Just stood there and froze up like a damn statue." Jeff was frowning now at himself. "I shoulda kissed her on the forehead or somethin', let her down easy. But no, I had to be a God damned icicle!"

Lou's voice became soft as she asked, "Why did you do that, Jeff?"

"Oh! You know! She's just too damned young. She's younger than Scott, fer pity's sake! I don't want no trophy wife!" He waved a hand to make his point. "Then there's Lucy. My beautiful Lucy. Oh God, how I miss her!"

"I miss her, too, Jeff. She was a good friend," Lou agreed, smiling slightly.

"Yeah." He fell silent for a moment, then he gazed straight at her. "Then... then there's you."

"Me?" Lou asked, sitting up sharply in surprise.

"Yeah. You, Lou." He pointed a finger at her. It loomed large on the screen. "I kissed you, and you kissed me, and... and I didn't have to think about it. It just... happened. Warm and nice. No icicle. And..." He squinted at her a moment, then dropped his head in his hands. "Oh God. I_ am _drunk, aren't I?"

She gazed back at him with sympathetic amusement, her cheek in the palm of her hand. "Yeah, Jeff. I think maybe you are, just a little. Don't worry though. I won't take it personally."

"Shouldn't have had that last shot of Bushmill's," he groaned, shaking his head.

"Probably not," she agreed. _This is no time to tell him about this guy who's looking for me, or about my little visit from "Dick the Hick". I can bring that up later, when he's slept this off. Though "Dick the Hick" might be better off if I didn't mention him! _"Listen, Jeff. It's getting late here. I need some sleep and so do you. Go back to the house and sleep it off, okay?"

"Okay, okay. I get the message," Jeff said irritably. "When are you coming to visit?"

"Soon, Jeff. Gotta get my pilot's license back first."

"What happened to your pilot's license? Did it expire or something?"

"No, Jeff. The people who helped me create Cindy Lou haven't been able to put the license in her name yet." _And they should have been able to by now! I'll rattle their cages in the morning._

"So? I can come get you," Jeff said stubbornly. "I'll come out tomorrow. I really want to see you."

"Jeff, tomorrow's not a good day. Spot and Moofums have appointments at their vet." She smiled at him fondly. "I'll tell you what; I'll call you tomorrow and we can make definite plans for me to come visit, okay?" She yawned, barely hiding it, hoping he'd get the hint. "But right now, I'm really getting tired..."

"Okay. You promise you'll call?" Jeff asked, still sounding stubborn.

"Yes, I promise," Lou replied, nodding. "You go back to the house and sleep this off."

"All right, Lou. Talk to you tomorrow." He yawned widely. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Jeff. Take care." She reached out and reluctantly ended the call, and sat staring at the screen for a few minutes. _Whew! Sounds like he's going to have a bit of a hangover. I only remember seeing him like this once before. He got really stubborn and argued with Lucy about driving home. She was pregnant with Alan and hadn't been drinking at all, so she was able to bring him around to her point of view. It's so sad that he's still mourning her. _

She began to close the windows on her computer, readying it for sleep mode. _I feel badly for Penelope; she seems to be under a great deal of pressure, and Jeff's behavior probably made it worse._ She sighed, feeling a bit uneasy and yet there was a certain thrill, too, when she thought over what he had said. _How did I get to be so important to him all of a sudden? This is not the best time; I can't even be myself. I guess I'll have to wait to see what happens and deal with things as they come. _

In the Round House, Jeff stretched and yawned. He was sleepy now, and didn't want to move. _I'll just lie down here and take a nap. _He shifted his position so he was on his side, one arm draped over his chest, and the other tucked behind a small plush sofa pillow. Within minutes, he was sound asleep.

xxxx

Midnight in the Caribbean, and Alvarez was ready to call it a night. He ground out the fine Cuban cigar he had been smoking and finished off his glass of wine. As he put the goblet back on his desk, Ramirez came in, his data pad in hand.

"Are the preparations going as planned?" the minister asked.

"Si, your Excellency. Your belongings are being packed and are nearly ready for transport to your Unity City home. The computers are also being loaded onto the helijet."

"Very good." Alvarez loosened his tie and removed it. He glanced up at Ramirez, who was standing, looking uncomfortable. "Is there a problem, Fernando?"

His secretary sighed. "Si, Excellency. There is some question about what to do with... him."

Alvarez looked puzzled for a moment, then comprehension dawned. "Ah! Carlos. I suppose that if Jorge has done his job, I shall have no longer have need of him."

"I do not trust that Jorge has done as he said he would," Ramirez said flatly. "He said the encryption was difficult; perhaps he lied about being able to alter your files."

"Hmm. You have a point. Besides, if I leave Carlos here, he will eventually die anyway. Why waste a bullet that can be traced?" He unbuttoned his cuffs. "I will leave him behind, alive. Assign three men to guard him personally. International Rescue knows I am... not myself, and may decide to look into what happened to the real Alvarez. If they do, I want to be sure he does not live long enough to be rescued."

"Very good, your Excellency," Ramirez said, adding a note about the guard detachment. "And the other men?"

"I have handpicked several to come over with us as my personal bodyguards. The rest should remain and protect the property. The caretakers are not strong enough to do so."

"Si, your Excellency. I shall tend to it immediately."

Alvarez smiled slightly and shook his head. "No, Fernando. The morning is soon enough. Get some sleep and report to me at eight."

Ramirez nodded, relieved. "I will, your Excellency." He bowed formally, and left, taking his pad with him.

Alvarez picked up his tie and cuff links, gazing around the room. "I shall miss this office," he murmured to himself. "But it is only the stepping stone to bigger and better things."

xxxx

Virgil put Tracy One down at the airstrip on the outer edge of the ranch. He had been silent the whole way since his talk with Penelope, internally going over in his head what he should have said, what he should have done, and kicking himself for what he actually said and did. Once he brought the plane to a halt, he saw the jeep approaching. The house was more than a mile away from the airstrip, over an unpaved road, and everything was dusty from lack of rain. He really didn't see why Penelope held on to this ranch; it didn't fit her at all. But she visited there four or five times a year, sometimes bringing out friends deemed in need of a "rest cure".

_Maybe it's just a change of pace for her. Different weather than in England,_ he thought as he climbed out of the pilot's seat and unsealed the passenger cabin's hatch, pulling down the stairs. He didn't wait for Penelope or Parker to deplane, but went straight back to the cargo hatch and began to unload the luggage.

Mick Sullivan, husband of the couple who took care of Lady Penelope's ranch, came around and shook hands with Virgil. "Good t' see ya, Mr. V," he said. "I'll take her Ladyship's bags. Carrie's back at the house making some cold drinks. You staying for the evening?"

"No, Mick, I'll be heading home as soon as the plane's clear. But thanks for asking."

"Okay, mate. See you around sometime." Mick took over removing the bags from the cargo hold, leaving Virgil to head back and see to the passenger cabin.

"Mister Virgil," Parker called as he climbed back aboard. "Ay would layke t' 'ave h'a word wiv ye."

"Yes, Parker? What is it?" the pilot asked as he turned from stowing things that had been taken out. He was unprepared for the jab to the belly that bent him double, nor for the right cross to the jaw that sent him staggering. He fell backwards over one of the captain's style passenger seats and glared up at Parker, fingering his jaw, which had been hit again in nearly the same place where Scott had connected. "What the _hell_ was that for?" he shouted indignantly.

"Fer Milady," Parker replied, glaring down on him. "Ay 'ave neveh seen 'er so h'upset h'as Ay did when she came flaying aout o' that cockpit. She sat h'in that chair an' 'eld 'erself h'as h'if she were cold an' would not h'answer me. Ay don't know what ye said t' 'er, but ye'd better h'apologize t' 'er straightway, afore Ay gi'e ye some more o' what ye deserve."

"Apologize? I have nothing to apologize for, Parker!" Virgil shouted, climbing to his feet. "Except perhaps for the timing of what I said to her. And I've been kicking myself over that ever since she left the cockpit! No, Parker, I will not apologize for telling her the truth! I will _not_ apologize for telling her I love her!"

Parker's eyes went wide, and his jaw dropped for a moment. He recovered himself, and hemmed a little. "Well then, Mister Virgil, per'aps Ay've been h'a bit 'asty-layke..."

"Hasty-like? I'd say so! And it's obvious I made a big mistake in telling her when I did." Virgil made an angry sweeping gesture with his arm. "Just get out!"

The chauffeur opened his mouth to say something more, then snapped it shut and left the jet. Virgil pulled the steps up and closed the hatch, and climbed into the cockpit. He watched as the jeep, carrying three people, pulled away and drove down the road in a cloud of dust. Lady Penelope sat in the front passenger seat, her posture ramrod straight, her eyes hidden by her sunglasses and hair covered by a pink floral scarf. Parker sat in the seat behind Mick. Out of the three, only Mick raised a hand in farewell.

He started the jet, hearing the engines whine into life, then turned the plane around 360 degrees. With a terse radio warning to the house, he taxied down the runway and took Tracy One into the sky again, heading for home... and a stiff drink.


	30. Regrets in Neon Orange

_Author's Note: _Virgil and Scott share a drink and Jeff has a hangover, while Gordon models Tin-Tin's design. My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading and being a sounding board.

**mcj: **The Round House is an interesting little building. In some pictures it has two stories, in others only one. And it looks like it's set up for guest accommodations though how people could sleep with the vibrations of Thunderbird Three taking off, I don't know. But don't worry. It will eventually get some use.

**FrankieC: **Tee hee hee! I knew I'd make you crazy! Stick with me, girl, more is coming.

**Amanda Tracy: **Sure, just give Jeff a call!

**Math Girl: **No, the poor idiot child has had a bad day. Penny knows, and Lou knows something, even if Jeff hasn't come out and said those three little words. And yeah, Jeff got slightly sloshed. The pressures been coming to bear on him, too. "Action drinking"! LOL! More coming right up!

**Fiona Belegant: **Close your mouth now, dear. As far as Virgil and Lady P are concerned, there's more to this than meets the eye. I"m glad you're enjoying the story and is this soon enough? ;)

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

"Tracy One requesting landing clearance, over." 

"Clearance granted, Tracy One. Welcome back." Scott turned off the radio and sat back in his father's chair. "Virgil didn't sound too happy, did he?"

"No, not at all," Gordon commented from across the room where he was playing chess with Brains. "Could it be because Penelope's gone to Bongo-Bongo and Dad made him take her there?"

"P-Perhaps, Gordon, if that's what h-happened. Though I, uh, don't see why that would m- make him unhappy," Brains said, his eyes on the board. "Check."

Gordon frowned at the board. "When'd you do that?" he asked his opponent, glancing up at him.

"J-Just now," Brains replied with a slight smirk.

The aquanaut gave the engineer a dirty look, and turned his attention back to the game.

"Has anyone seen Dad?" Alan asked as he came in through the study, his blond hair still damp from a swim. Kenny Malone followed, his hair also shiny and wet. He looked around the lounge with great interest and made a beeline for the portraits of the Tracy sons, all in uniform, that lined one wall.

"No, not recently. Not since before lunch, when he sent us all out of the room," Gordon explained helpfully. He moved his king out of danger, then sat back with his arms folded as if daring the engineer to put him back in check.

"Hmm. I could ask John where Dad is," Scott suggested. "It would be the easiest way to find him."

"True," said Alan. Something caught his eye by the door to the balcony, and he altered course to fetch it. "Hey, here's one of Dad's whiskey glasses." He gave it a sniff. "It's been used."

Scott levered himself out of his father's chair and took the glass from Alan. He smelled it, too, and nodded his head. "Dad must have had a snort. Wonder why he left it by the door?"

"Maybe he went outside afterwards and didn't want to take the glass with him," Kenny suggested hesitantly, turning from where he was examining John's portrait.

Scott nodded again in the mechanic's direction. "You're probably right, Kenny. Wonder where he went."

"Hey, Scott, d'you think Dad would mind if I showed Kenny how I get to Thunderbird Three?" Alan asked. "I don't think we've given him a proper tour yet."

The eldest son shrugged. "I don't suppose it would hurt. Go ahead."

"Come over here, Kenny, and sit on this couch," Alan said, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

"Okay, sure," Kenny replied agreeably as he joined Alan. "Now what?"

"Oh, just this," Scott said with a wicked grin as he pushed the button that sent the sofa into the floor.

Kenny's eyes went wide and his shouted, "Whoa!" could be heard echoing up through the shaft, followed shortly by, "Hey, that's a couch just like this one!" Scott and Gordon both chuckled, while Brains merely said, "Check."

The empty couch slipped smoothly into place just as the intercom buzzed, and Grandma's voice could be heard. "Jeff? Are you up in the lounge?"

"No, Grandma, Dad's not here," Scott explained. "What can I help you with?"

"I need Gordon to come down here to Tin-Tin's suite and try on the new uniform. We've been working on it ever since lunch and it's nearly complete. Just needs a few more adjustments."

"Sure, I'll send him down right away."

"Thank you, Scott. Oh, and supper will be ready in about forty-five minutes. Make sure everyone knows."

"Okay, Grandma. Scott out." He glanced over at Gordon, who was studying the chess board. "You heard the lady, Gordon."

"Ugh. More pins," the copper-haired one grunted. He moved his king out of danger again, and said to his opponent, "Duty calls."

"D-Doesn't matter," Brains said with a smug smile. "Mate in two."

Gordon growled in his throat, and got up to leave the room. As he left, Virgil came storming in, passing his younger brother, coming straight up to Scott and demanding, "Give me a shot of Dad's stash!"

"What for?" Scott asked, scowling.

"Because I need it," Virgil shot back. He began to circle around the desk, heading for the cupboard.

Scott stood up and stepped in his way. "What's the matter? What's got you so hot and bothered?"

Virgil glanced over at Brains who was watching the exchange with interest. Scott came to his rescue. "Brains? Do you mind?" he asked.

Brains shrugged. There were times that he felt a part of the family and other times when the brothers closed ranks, not necessarily against him in particular, but to shield each other. This seemed to be one of those times. "Wh-Why don't I go look for your, uh, father?"

"Good idea," Scott said, giving the engineer a smile.

Virgil raised a hand and gave a grateful, "Thanks, Brains."

The engineer left the room via the door to the balcony. "Now, if I were, uh, Mr. T-Tracy, which way would I go?" he asked himself. "He's not by the pool; Alan and K-Kenny would have, uh, seen him. I'll check the, uh, garden first."

Back in the lounge, Scott pulled out the bottle of Bushmill's. "Hey! Looks like Dad got out a new bottle." He looked up at Virgil, who was standing over the desk. "You've calmed down some. You sure you still want this?"

"Yes, I still want it," Virgil said.

"Well, you're only having one shot and you're not drinking alone," Scott said. He pulled out two glasses. "It's evident that Dad's had a snort of this already," he commented, motioning to the dirty glass. He poured two fingers' worth for each of them and handed Virgil one, then leaned back in Jeff's chair, sniffing the whiskey before he sipped it. "Whoa! That's got a punch!"

Virgil settled himself on the edge of the desk as he had before, crossing one arm across his chest and staring over at the pictures of the five of them. He didn't dare look in the direction of his other painting, the one of Penelope. He sipped the Scotch but didn't really taste it.

"Earth to Virgil, come in, Virgil," Scott said as he watched his brother. When the younger man started and turned his eyes toward him, he asked, "What's on your mind?" He reached up to touch his brother's jaw with a finger. "Hey, I thought that bruise was healing up!"

Virgil felt along his jaw. "It was. _This _is a new one. I should have gotten some ice for it. It was a little present from Parker."

"From Parker? What the hell did you do to rile_ him_?"

The chestnut-haired man sipped his drink again. "It's... it's hard to talk about." He sighed. "You know when Dad called me up to the lounge after lunch?"

Scott nodded, and Virgil continued, "Well, he wanted me to take Penelope to Bongo-Bongo, as you probably know. What you don't know is why he chose me and not you or one of the others."

"Okay, I'll bite. Why did Dad send you?"

"To give me an opportunity to talk to Penny and tell her how I feel," Virgil said bitterly. "Seems she and Dad... well, she learned how Dad really feels about her."

"Not a girlfriend," Scott said, sipping his Scotch.

Virgil frowned. "How did you know?"

Now Scott got fidgety, and put his glass on the desk, absently twirling it around slowly from the top. "When we got back from the Caribbean, I gave him a piece of my mind. Accused him of putting Peter's life on the line to save...," Scott made little waving hooks of the first two fingers on each hand to indicate quotation marks, " 'his girlfriend'." He went back to turning the glass in circles, his eyes focused on it, but unseeing. "He told me flat out then and there that Penelope wasn't his girlfriend. Never had been and never would be."

"Oh," was all Virgil could say.

They were silent for a moment, then Scott picked up the glass, and took another sip. He let the smooth liquor roll down his tongue and beyond before asking, "So? What did you do?"

Virgil shook his head ruefully. "I asked her to come up to the cockpit. We talked. I indicated that Dad had told me what had happened between them, and why I had been selected to take her to Bongo-Bongo." He took a last gulp of Scotch and put the glass down on the desk. "Then I told her I loved her." He snorted a humorless laugh. "What an idiotic move that was!"

"Why?" Scott asked, finishing his drink.

"She... it... it was just the wrong time, that's all. Here she'd been bombarded with all this crap from Unity City, on top of all the grief over Peter, not to mention Dad's little revelation..." He shook his head. "It was just too much for her, Scott. She shot out of the cockpit like the devil was chasing her. And Parker said she just sat in her seat, hugging herself, not responding to him, for the rest of the flight." Virgil fingered his jaw again. "That's what earned me this beaut. I kicked myself all the rest of the way there and all the way back."

"Hmm. Sounds like you blew it, Virge," Scott remarked. "Just like I did. I meant to apologize for the way I treated her but never made the time."

"You had a change of heart toward her?" his brother asked, surprised.

"Yeah. Parker and I had a little chat on the way to Derry. He told me Pete's last words. It changed a few things for me, opened my eyes to how some of the agents must really feel about working for IR. I was all for disbanding the network and protecting those who didn't have the skills to do the things we asked of Pete, that we ask of Penny on a regular basis. But for some of them, it's a special thing to work for IR. They might not be able to pilot a jet or drive the Mole or do any of the things that we do, yet they feel a part of it, and it's important to them. And more important to _us _than I realized. I mean, we wouldn't have had any idea about what information those detectives had found if it wasn't for Renée."

"Renée?"

"Agent 38. Her first name is Renée," Scott explained, smiling. "I got to know her a little bit at Unity City. She's quite a lady."

"Yeah, so is Agent 87. John's new 'friend'," Virgil said, when Scott shot him a puzzled look. "She had some interesting things to say while we were waiting for you to come back."

"Oh, you mean the Valkyrie?" the older man asked.

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Whew! John certainly picks the hot ones, doesn't he?" Scott joked.

"He does. Wonder how she looks in her firefighter's gear?" Virgil speculated.

Just then the intercom buzzed. Virgil and Scott both reached for the button. "S-Scott? Brains here. I've, uh, found your father. He's in the, uh, Round House."

"What's he doing there, Brains?" Scott asked, exchanging a concerned glance with Virgil.

"Uh, evidently, he's, uh, sleeping one o-off."

"Do we leave him?" Scott asked Virgil.

The younger man shrugged. "He might want to eat dinner. He barely touched his lunch."

"Brains, see what you can do to wake him up. I'll join you in a few minutes," Scott replied.

"O-Okay, Scott."

Scott rose from his father's seat. "Better put this away," he said, stashing the Bushmill's in its cupboard. He tapped Virgil's arm. "Come on and lend a hand. I need to apologize to Dad, too, and he's got to be conscious and sober for me to do it."

xxxx

"Milady? Tea is served, milady," Parker said in a gentle tone he rarely used.

Penelope stood by the tall windows that looked out onto the patio. "Set it on the table, Parker. I shall attend to it presently."

"Very good, milady." There was a slight rattle of crockery and silver as Parker set the tea service down where his employer had indicated. He stood for a moment, shifting from one foot to another. "Beggin' yer pardon, milady, but Ay 'ave summat t' tell ye."

She sighed heavily. "What is it, Parker?"

"Erm... h'afore Mr. Virgil left, Ay 'ad h'a word wit' 'im. H'About what 'e said t' ye. Ay'm h'afraid Ay was h'a tad 'asty-layke..."

"What did you say to him, Parker?" she asked in a long-suffering tone.

"Ay'm h'afraid Ay spoke wiv may fists furst, milady," the chauffeur said regretfully.

"Oh, Parker!" Penelope now turned from the window to give her partner a reproachful look. "Did you at least ask him what it was he said to me?"

"No, milady, Ay did not. But 'e told me chust th' same." Parker had the good grace to look downcast and appropriately contrite. "Ay h'apologize fer may mistake, milady. Ay shall, o'course, h'apologize t' Mr. Virgil 'imself when Ay see 'im h'again."

"Poor Virgil," Penelope shook her head. "I do hope you haven't damaged him too badly, Parker. I suppose I shall have to apologize as well. My own behavior was far from ladylike. But after learning how... Jeff sees me, to hear his son profess love... it was too much for me to handle."

" 'E did say, milady, that 'e re-h'a-layzed h'it wuz poor timin'," Parker offered.

"Yes, it was, Parker. Very poor timing." Penelope moved over to the comfortable chintz covered chair that she preferred and poured herself a cup of tea. She glanced up at Parker. "That will be all, Parker."

"Very good, milady."

The butler turned to go, but stopped as Penelope called, "Oh, Parker?"

"Yus, milady?"

"Thank you for... defending my honor, as it were. It is heartening to know that chivalry is not dead."

"H'It never were, milady. An' yer welcome."

Parker turned again and left the room, closing the doors quietly behind him. Penelope sat back in her chair, sipping her tea, enjoying the quiet of the ranch, and reviewing in her mind all the information that had been gathered about Alison St. Clair. She pushed Jeff's rejection and Virgil's profession off to one side for later consideration.

xxxx

Dinner was over. Jeff still looked like he'd had too much to drink, but coffee, aspirin, and a light meal helped him through the worst of it. He now sat behind his desk with another cup of strong coffee as the rest of the extended family gathered in the lounge to await the unveiling of Tin-Tin's new uniform design. Voices could be heard coming from the study. "Stand still, Gordon!" "Ow! You stuck me again, Grandma!" "Here, let me clean that visor off!" Jeff hoped that the voices couldn't carry to the communications system; John was online with them, his portrait activated.

Eleanor scurried out of the study, a grin on her face. She slipped into a space between Virgil and Brains on the couch and sat up regally. Tin-Tin came out, smiled hesitantly, and said, "Okay everyone, here is my proposed new design for the International Rescue operative uniform. Come on out!"

Gordon, ever the showman, came down the steps with an exaggerated swagger to his walk. He was dressed in lightweight black cargo pants tucked into straight black boots that came up to mid-calf and were topped by a neon orange stripe, much like the boots the boys currently wore, only with less heel and more tread. A matching orange stripe ran up the side of each pant leg, intersected by the pockets, with the flaps on the pockets trimmed in the same color. A barely seen zipper ran around the pant legs just above the knee.

His belt was woven and bright, and a holster hung from it on the right hip. In the holster sat one of their regulation pistols. The black jacket he wore looked like it was leather, and was trimmed with a narrower band in the garish neon across each shoulder and down the sleeve to the wrist. A wider strip of color ran down the front on the left side, with the IR logo cutting through it over the left breast. Beneath the logo, within the confines of the stripe, was an embroidered Greek letter, omicron.

He took off the jacket to reveal a tight, Spandex-type shirt with a mock turtleneck and short sleeves. It fit him very snugly, and showed off nearly every muscle beneath it. It, too, was bright orange, and shiny, almost as if it had sequins on it. Wide black stripes flowed from the collar to the edge of each sleeve, and the IR logo was sewn on the left one. His black baseball style cap was trimmed in his favorite color, and below it, the visor gleamed, covering half his face above the cocky grin. He wore what looked like black leather driving gloves on his hands.

"It's all made of Penelon," Tin-Tin announced proudly. "There would be a long-sleeved turtleneck and heavier trousers for colder weather, as well as a fleece lining to the jacket and a heavy knit cap. For warmer weather, a lighter weight windbreaker style jacket can be substituted. And for hot weather, you can zip off the bottom of the pants and use ankle-high hiking style boots. Plus," she said, making a quick dash for the lights switch and throwing the room into darkness, "the trim all glows in the dark. Stays this bright for four hours." The uniform and hat trim did glow in the dark, and quite intensely, too. Turning on the lights again, she gestured theatrically to Gordon, who was turning around, walking toward his father, then John as if a model on a runway. "So? What do you think?"

"It's certainly, uh, bright," Brains said, his eyes wide behind his glasses.

"And the shirt sure is, uh, shiny," Alan added, an incredulous look on his face.

"I like the pants," Virgil remarked. "But I think the color effect would work better if the stripe on them carried down into the boot, instead of being cut off by the strip around the top."

"We have enough trouble with the ladies as it is, Theta," Scott commented. "That tight shirt would multiply our troubles exponentially."

"That whole thing will suck with neon purple as a trim," John groused. "I might as well stick to lavender."

Gordon was making muscle poses now, flexing his arms to let triceps and biceps show. "I kinda like the shirt," he said. "The current uniform gives me little opportunity to... ahem... flex my muscle."

The assemblage groaned at the pun. Tin-Tin turned her eyes to Jeff, who hadn't yet said a thing. "M... Commander? What do you think?"

Jeff stared at Gordon for a long moment, tapping his stylus on his chin. Then finally he spoke. "Omicron? Come here."

Gordon approached the desk. Jeff made a twirling motion with his finger pointed downward. "Turn around."

His son did as instructed, showing his back to his father and glancing over his shoulder. "Bend over."

Everyone looked puzzled as Gordon bent over at the waist. "Squat down," Jeff ordered. The aquanaut obeyed and Jeff leaned over to see the results. "Good. No butt cleavage."

There was a moment of silence, then the whole group exploded into laughter. Gordon fell on the floor, holding his sides. Jeff looked on with weary amusement, then signaled for quiet. "Okay. Here are my thoughts. The stretchy shirt is okay as long as it's_ not _shiny. The pants are okay as far as style goes, as is the jacket. Take Delta's suggestion on the stripe for the boots, or eliminate the color stripe entirely. Keep the footgear and the gloves black, but do everything else in dark blue. That should tone down some of the high contrast we're seeing here. And remove the Greek letter. I expect we'll be changing code names from time to time, and besides, how many people are going to know what it is anyway?" He turned to John. "Epsilon, if you don't think neon purple would work, choose another color entirely. Same goes for you, Rho, if brown doesn't work."

"With dark blue, a royal purple might work," John mused aloud. "So might a brown, if it can be made to glow in the dark." Brains nodded thoughtfully.

"Oh, one more thing," Jeff said. "No gold lamé shirt for me. Scrambled eggs on the cap visor and gold-toned stripes with a dark blue shirt will have to do." He looked around at the assembly. "Any more comments or questions?"

"I still think that shirt is going to cause trouble with the opposite sex," Scott reiterated. "And not just for us, either. Just imagine Theta in it."

"Ooh la la!" quipped Gordon. "I can _imagine_." Alan picked up a sofa pillow and threw it at him, while Tin-Tin stood with her arms crossed, giving him an icy stare.

"Okay, okay, people. No pillow fighting this time," Jeff warned irritably. "You're all dismissed." He turned to John. "Anything you need from us, Epsilon?"

"No sir."

"Then we'll talk later, Thunderbird Five. Base out." John's live picture winked out, replaced by his portrait.

Everyone eventually filed out of the room save Scott, who moved to stand before his father's desk, and Virgil, who went to pull some sheaves of paper out of his piano bench, then arranged them on his music stand. He sat down and began to softly play.

"Dad? Can I talk to you for a couple of minutes?" Scott asked. He noticed that his father was shielding his eyes from the light with one hand and rubbing his forehead at the same time with those shielding fingers.

Jeff looked blearily up at his eldest. "Can it wait until tomorrow, Scott? I think I need to hit the hay relatively early tonight."

"Sure, Dad. You look rough. Get some more sleep."

"That's what Lou said," Jeff muttered as he got up from his chair and slowly walked across the room. He lifted a hand in farewell as he left the room. "Goodnight, boys."

"Goodnight, Dad." "Sleep well, Dad."

Scott sat back in Jeff's chair, and pulled out a newspaper from the trash can behind the desk. "Hey, an empty crossword!" Finding a pen in the desk drawer, he began to read the clues, muttering under his breath, not paying much heed to what his brother was playing. Virgil smiled slightly; he was glad Scott had tuned him out. He really didn't want any comments made during his first public performance of "Pink Lady".

xxxx

Five in the morning, and Shelly Clarendon was ready for work. She picked up her purse and her keys, and removed her satellite phone from the charger. Glancing at the refrigerator in passing, she saw a bright pink note pinned there by a magnet. It was in her husband's unruly scribble and said, "Call Lou from work". Beneath the message was a number. "Hmm, wonder what prompted Lou to actually call?" she murmured as she took the note down and placed it in her purse with her phone. "I'll call her on my breakfast break." And with that, she left the house for the day.

James Franks was in his sedan, waiting on his quarry. He watched her get into her car, and waited for a few extra seconds before pulling out after her. It was still dark on the roads, and rather empty, so he had to be careful as he followed her. Finally, she pulled into the parking lot of the retirement center, parked her car, picked up her handbag, and walked briskly into the building, leaving behind her phone, which had fallen out of her bag unnoticed.

Franks waited for about thirty minutes, watching from a store parking lot across the street, just to make sure that all the workers who reported at that particular time had arrived. Then he took a small square gadget from his stainless steel briefcase. It looked like the remote control for a car's electronic lock, but not quite. This little gadget could detect the frequency used by a remote for a particular car and mimic it, allowing for entry into the vehicle without triggering alarms. First he approached her car, openly, confidently. _Look like you belong there, like you know what you're doing. _He peered inside and smiled. The satellite phone was on the passenger seat, just as he expected it to be. _People are so predictable. And so trusting. _He held up the little square to the door, holding down a black button, glancing down at it every so often as a tiny red light blinked off and on. Suddenly, there was a click, and the door locks popped up.

He opened the door with his gloved hand, reached across carefully to the passenger seat and grabbed the phone. Tucking it into his shirt pocket, he locked the door again behind him. He took a small, sharp object out of his jacket pocket and, going around to the rear passenger wheel, reached up and inserted its two sharp, connected prongs into two parallel treads of the tire._ When she pulls out, this will be pushed into the tire and, after a tenth of a mile, the prongs will fall inside and the connecting bar will peel off. Then within another mile, she'll have a flat. That's when I move in. _

At nine in the morning, Shelly went out to her car. Unlocking it, she searched for her phone, but came up empty handed._ Hmm. I thought I put it in my purse this morning. But it's not there, and not out here either. _She shrugged. _Oh well, I probably left it at home after all. In that case, I'll wait to call until after work._

Across the street, Jim Franks watched her, and smiled.


	31. A Pawn Is Taken

_Author's Note: _Jim Franks makes his move. My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading and being a sounding board, and to fellowriverrat for her insight on a dietician's role in a retirement center/nursing home. No reviews on 30 just yet, but my muse won't let me stop!

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

"Oh, God, what a day!" Shelly groaned as she eased herself into her car. It _had_ been rough; she had been doing spot checks for the health department's documentation, three patients had required new supplements to help them gain weight, and one of her workers had failed to bring food requested by a nurse to a patient with brittle diabetes. Result: the patient's blood glucose levels had plummeted to dangerous levels. The nursing staff was able to bring them up, basically saving the man's life, but Shelly had been livid and had given that particular member of the dietary staff a thorough reaming out. The result of_ that_? The woman quit on the spot, and now... "Now we're going to be short-handed again," she muttered as she strapped herself in and started the car. "Chuck is not going to like that; not one bit." 

She pulled out of the parking lot into the light afternoon traffic. It had begun to rain earlier in the day, a steady shower with occasional downpours and rumbles of thunder, and her mad dash to the car had further darkened her already sweat-soaked turquoise scrubs. As she drove, the rhythmic swish of the wipers clearing the windshield, her mind was half on the road, half on how she was going to rearrange the schedule to cover for the personnel gap. She knew that she herself would have to work overtime, and she would probably cycle through the other dietary crew members to make up for the missing manpower.

Suddenly, all of her attention was brought to the car, which seemed to have developed an inexplicable tendency to swerve sharply to the right. Hanging on tightly to the steering wheel, she attempted to regain control of the vehicle and was partially successful. The thumping she heard as she gradually pulled over onto the narrow shoulder sounded ominous, and she groaned. _I bet I've got a flat. Just what I needed after the day I had, and in the pouring rain, too! _She brought the car to a halt and put it in park, activating her four-way flashers. Rummaging around in her purse, she swore as she remembered that she didn't have her phone with her._ What a day to forget it! _she groused internally. Heaving a heavy sigh, she decided, _Better go out and see what the damage is and if I can change the thing._

She turned off the ignition, but left the headlights on to help her see through the gloomy day. Shouldering on her heavy cardigan, she carefully got out of the car. A couple of vehicles whizzed past; no one seemed to want to be a good Samaritan on such a nasty day. Easing quickly to the rear of her car, she ducked around to check the passenger side wheel._ Flat as a pancake, _she groaned to herself, shaking her head. _Well, I'll have to either walk, or wait for help. Better get back inside where it's dry and wait for a bit first. Maybe one of those cars that passed will call the highway patrol. _

But as she was opening the door to slip back into her car, a sleek sedan pulled up in front of her, and its driver got out. She stood with the door slightly open and waited to see what this stranger had to say.

"I saw you stuck here, ma'am. Looks like you've got a flat. Is there anything I can do to help?" the dark-haired man asked, smiling as he walked up to her. He had his arms wrapped around himself as if trying to protect his body from the rain. They both flinched as a van shot by, spattering them both in water and sand from the road as it passed.

"Yes, there is," Shelly said, slightly uneasy about the man. There was something odd about his voice that puzzled her; she couldn't really tell if it were a woman's voice or a man's. "Do you have a phone so I could call my husband to come get me?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not, ma'am. But I'd be happy to take you to a pay phone, if that would help."

Shelly hesitated for a moment. She knew she was in a potentially dangerous situation. But the reality of it was that she was standing outside her car, getting drenched and far too tired to walk to the nearest gas station. The poor man who stopped was also getting soaked and it would be unfair to ask him to actually change the tire in this weather, especially since neither of them seemed to be prepared for it. In the end, her strong desire to get home as soon as possible overrode her caution, and she smiled at the man. "I would appreciate that very much, thank you. Just let me get my purse." She ducked inside, retrieved her bag and keys, turned off the headlights, leaving the flashers on, and locked up.

Approaching the sedan, she saw that the stranger had opened the passenger door for her in a very polite, gentlemanly way. She smiled again as she hustled into the shelter of his car, watching him scurry across the front to join her in getting out of the rain.

"Whew! That's some nasty weather today," he said with a grin. He offered his hand. "Derek Edwards."

She took it and shook it once. "Shelly Clarendon."

"So, Mrs. Clarendon? Where to?"

"There's a gas station a mile or two down the road here and a phone. If you could take me there?"

"Sure, Mrs. Clarendon. Not a problem."

She smiled at him as she fastened her seatbelt, and watched approvingly as he pulled out onto the road with care.

They chatted about the nasty weather, and a few minutes later, the gas station showed up on the right. "There it is," she said. "You can drop me off here... hey! Why didn't you stop?"

"I'm afraid I can't let you out, Mrs. Clarendon. Not until we reach _my_ destination," Edwards said, his eyes looking straight ahead as he sped past the spot. He reached into his wet jacket with his gloved right hand and brought it back out holding a gun, which he pointed at her. She gasped and put a hand to her mouth, her face going very pale. "You see, Shelly... you don't mind if I call you that, do you? You see, Shelly, I'd like a word with your little sister, Lucinda, and I don't have time to search this very big country looking for her. So, I'm counting on you to bring her to me."

"I... I don't know where she is!" Shelly exclaimed in a near-whisper.

Edwards turned to her and smiled, his white teeth gleaming, his light blue eyes fixed on hers, suddenly looking all the more sinister for it. "I'm sure you have _some _way of contacting her," he said with a deceptive joviality. "After all, she_ is _your sister."

_Oh, God! How am I going to get out of this?_ Shelly thought in despair, shuddering as she remembered what she had in her purse: a bright pink piece of paper with her sister's name and phone number on it.

xxxx

"Moofums! Yew were such a naughty kitty! Ah am sooo glad that yoah vet listened t' me an' put on th' heavy gloves," Cindy Lou scolded the fluffy feline as she opened the carrier. Moofums strutted out, her fluffy tail held majestically in the air, ignoring her mistress entirely. Spot had already been released from durance vile and had made a dash for her safe haven: the upstairs hall bathroom. The woman put Moofums's carrier away, then returned to Spot's container to wipe out the drool that had been smeared all over the interior. "Ah love 'em, but sometahmes theyah a lot o' work."

She returned Spot's carrier to the storage shelf above the dryer, and sighed with relief. The scratches that Moofums had given _her_ still stung when she washed her hands, and she pulled a bandage and anti-bacterial/antiviral ointment out of the medicine cabinet in the half-bath on the first floor. Taking them with her to the office, she tended to her wounds in between clicks of her mouse.

Her first stop was the website she had been monitoring. Her eyes grew wide when something other than the home page came up. "This site is now undah new management," she read in a murmur, as four rows of miniature British bobbies, waving nightsticks, chased stereotypical burglars, dressed in striped shirts and masks, back and forth across the red screen. She laughed. "Whoevah did this is mah hero!" Sitting up, she pulled up the draft of the letter she had written to Interpol, copied and pasted the note from Tony Cho into the body of the email, then addressed it to the head of the Singapore offices, whose email address she had looked up in some of her old Interpol materials._ She'll make sure it gets to the right people._

She had just clicked on the "send" command when her satellite phone rang.

xxxx

"Edwards" escorted Shelly at gunpoint into the deserted house he had decided to use as his temporary base. Breaking into the place had been easy enough; the little gizmo he had used on Shelly's car was handy for opening remote-controlled household doors as well. He didn't even bother with the front door where the secure, fingerprint-coded lockbox was, instead, he had come in through the back, where he wouldn't have to deactivate the tiny alarm that protected the locked up keypad.

"Now, Shelly, please sit down here on the floor," he instructed, guiding her to a corner of the living room. She glared balefully at him. "Don't get any ideas about resisting or trying to hurt me, Shelly. If_ you _don't cooperate, I'm sure your daughter _will_. Rachel, isn't that her name? She's in college, studying marine biology at that little place in Biddeford, am I right?" He smiled to see his victim's already pale face go even whiter, with almost a green tinge to it. "You see, I did my homework. You cooperate, and I'll leave little Rachel alone."

Looking as if she wanted to cry, and trying desperately not to do so, Shelly sat down as he instructed. He moved behind her, holstering his gun and grabbing one of her wrists, bending her arm back painfully. She leaned forward with a cry, and he held her in that position as he pulled out a pair of handcuffs from the side pocket of his jacket. He fastened that wrist with the cuffs, then grabbed the other wrist and imprisoned that one as well. Coming around to face her, he unholstered his gun again, then crouched down so they were just about at eye level. The gun was pointed down between his knees as he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out something shiny.

"Recognize this?" he asked, showing her the phone. "I lifted it from your car this morning." He let her take a good long look. "I've already been through your phone numbers; I'm surprised that you don't have Luci's in there."

"I don't have her number," Shelly said, a bit of defiant spirit showing. "She wouldn't give it to me."

"Such a pity," her captor said, shaking his head, tucking the phone back into his pocket. "You don't mind if I make certain of that?" He reached for her handbag, which he had carried in himself. With one swift motion, he had emptied its contents on the floor. "Hmm. Here's your PDA. That might prove useful." He opened her wallet, shook out her change purse, opened every slip of paper, every grocery list, receipt, and business card she had. "Hello! What's this?"

Shelly's heart sank as he held up the piece of bright pink paper. "Well, well, well. 'Call Lou'. And there's a phone number on it. I don't suppose you were going to tell me about this, were you, Shelly?" He raised his hand and she flinched, fully expecting him to slap her or something. Instead, he just grinned at her and pulled the phone out again. "Now, Shelly. I am going to place a call to your sister. You will say exactly what I tell you to and no more. Remember Rachel, hmm?" He began to dial the number on the slip of paper. "Now, this is what you're going to say..."

xxxx

"Cindy Lou... Shelly!" Cindy Lou's accent disappeared as the sight of her sister, looking particularly miserable, appeared on her screen.

"Hello, Lou," Shelly said dully. "I have someone here who wants to talk to you."

The picture suddenly shifted in a blur of gray and brown, then settled on the face of a man. Lou felt the blood drain from her face as she recognized the shark-like smile and the odd voice as he spoke.

"Well, hello there, Lou! I see you dyed your hair, too. I like the red color, and the curls. And blue eyes! Very sexy. You could have refrained from that so-called beauty mark, though. Did I hear you call yourself 'Cindy Lou'? Very clever!"

Lou slowed her now rapid breathing and recovered her some of her composure. Her eyes narrowed in fury and she hissed, "Franks, you bastard! What have you done to my sister?"

He put on an expression of mock indignation. "Lou, you wound me! I haven't done anything to your sister... yet." His facial expression changed to one of serious, angry intent, and he held up his pistol so she could see it. "But I will, if you don't follow my instructions to the letter."

She regarded him with hate in her eyes. "What do you want?"

Franks proceeded to tell her.

xxxx

She sat back, the tears she would not shed in front of him coming to her eyes and coursing down her cheeks. _He knows it's impossible. I told him flat out I couldn't just charter a plane and why. What the hell am I going to do? There's no way I can get to Maine from here in just three hours!_ She huffed out a breath, staring unseeing at her computer screen as the little cops chased the robbers across it. Little by little, she became aware of the chase again, and she knew what she had to do, who she had to call.

Picking up her phone, she speed-dialed a number, hoping that the man on the other end would be able to deliver a miracle.

xxxx

Morning on Tracy Island and Virgil was up early, trying to capture the glint of sun on sea that he had seen the other day. He became aware of a repetitive noise in the lounge behind him, and turned to hear it better. _That sounds like the vidphone. Kyrano's probably busy with breakfast. I'd better go answer it._

He stepped into the lounge, palette still in hand, and strode quickly over to the desk. Putting the palette on the desk, he sat down in his father's chair and answered the phone.

"Hey, Aunt Lucinda!" he exclaimed with pleasure. "It's good to see you again!"

"And to see you, too, Virgil," she said with a tiny smile. "I'm afraid I can't exchange pleasantries though. I've got a... problem, an emergency, and I need to talk to your father right away."

"Uh, sure, Lucinda," Virgil said, taken back a bit by her straightforward speech. "I'll see if I can wake him. Hold on." He put her on hold, and hurried across the room, through the study, and into the hall where the bedrooms were situated. His father's room was on the far corner, the largest of the suites. Virgil pressed the button to open the door, grateful that his father hadn't locked it the night before. Passing through the sitting area, he entered the bedroom, and turned on the lights. "Dad! Dad! Wake up!"

Jeff stirred, groaning at the intrusion. He was still fully clothed from the day before, having stopped just long enough to kick off his shoes before he collapsed across the bed, . "Wha... What's the matter, Virgil? Is there an emergency? Turn out that damned light."

Virgil didn't obey. "Dad, it's Aunt Lucinda. She says she has an emergency and has to talk to you... now."

His father waved a hand in his general direction. "Okay, okay. Pipe it down here. I'll take it in my sitting room." He waved again, and Virgil left, hurrying back to the lounge.

Jeff levered himself out of bed and ran his hands through his hair, trying to push it back into place. The vidphone in the suite started buzzing for his attention and he stumbled out, rubbing his eyes as he did. He sat down in one of his favorite armchairs, then leaned forward to answer the call. "Jeff here."

"Jeff, I'm sorry for waking you, but something terrible has happened and I need your help right away," Lou said without preface.

Hearing the tension in her voice and seeing her serious expression, Jeff woke up a little more and got closer to the screen. "What's wrong, Lou? What can I do?"

Lou's shoulders slumped and she looked away for a moment. When she looked back, a tear was trailing down her cheek, and Jeff could see she was having trouble staying composed. She took a deep breath and said bitterly, "It's that bastard, Franks. Dammit, Jeff! He's got Shelly!"


	32. Queen's Gambit

_Author's Note: _Jeff answers Lou's call for help. My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading and to her and FrankieC for being sounding boards.

**FrankieC: **Well, butt cleavage would be rather... uhhh... unsuitable for such handsome rescuers, right? And you know Gordon! Always the show off! Yes, Franks is thoroughly a man you love to hate. That's what good villains are all about. More of his antics in this chapter.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

"Commander, we don't usually get involved in kidnappings," Scott protested, folding his arms over his dressing gown. 

"That's right," Virgil agreed. "I still think the local police or the FBI should take care of this."

"We're getting involved in this one." Jeff, now fully awake, dressed, and fortified with strong coffee, glared back at his sons from behind his desk. "And you heard what... _she_... had to say, Delta."

Once Jeff had heard Lou's story, he had hurried to the lounge and activated the emergency signal. This woke the members of the household who were still asleep, and brought them at a run. He transferred Lou's call back to the vidphone behind his desk and had her tell her story again. John was also awakened to listen in, which meant they needed to use code names. It still wasn't second nature to any of them, and for once, Jeff regretted that he'd made the policy

"Jim Franks, my former partner and one of the people involved in that assault in North Carolina, has my sister as hostage. He wants the disk of information that I got from my late co-worker, the one with the data on International Rescue. He gave me three hours to get from where I am to the airport at Biddeford, Maine, where I'm supposed to wait for more instructions." Lou sighed. "If I had my pilot's license under my current... alias, I'd be able to charter a small plane and fly up there within the allotted time. But I don't, so I can't. Not only that, but there's no one around here I can call on for backup. A good cop doesn't go into a dangerous situation without someone she trusts watching her back; though if I know Franks, I'm sure_ he'll _think I'm coming alone. After all, that's what he specified."

She closed her eyes and looked away slightly. "I'm turning to you, J... uh, and your, uh, operatives to help me out here. Help me get to Maine, and watch my back while I'm there. I can't do this by myself. And..." They saw her bite her lower lip, trying to control her emotions. When she looked up, there were unmistakable tears in her eyes. "And my sister's life is at stake. If you can't do it for me, do it for her. Another rescue, if you will."

"Why can't you call the police or the FBI?" Virgil asked.

"The FBI has no jurisdiction because the crime doesn't cross state lines. So it'll have to be the locals who take the case, either the state police or, more likely, the county sheriff's office. And I know this man. He'll have a police scanner and he knows what kind of chatter to listen for."

"What about the disk?" Alan asked.

"She destroyed it, Alan. I saw her do it," Jeff cut in.

Lou added. "With or without the disk, I just can't _not_ go... she's my only sister and she's in trouble because of me."

"And ultimately, she's in trouble because of _us_," Tin-Tin remarked softly.

Jeff nodded. "That's very true, Theta." Then he assured Lou of their help, and that he would call back shortly with more details.

"I still don't understand why we're getting involved." Scott challenged, his pose and voice suddenly becoming defiant.

"Because this is a friend of ours, a very old and dear friend. Because this woman has put in yeoman's work trying to keep us from exposure, putting herself on the line for us. Because what this man wants has to do with our security. And because we're the only ones who_ can _help," Jeff angrily shot back, scowling. "You heard her. She knows this guy inside and out. If the police are called in, he'll know and he'll kill her sister. It's as plain as that. Now, she has less than three hours to get to Maine. Here's our plan."

"First, she needs transportation that can get her there in time. That means Thunderbird One. Second, she needs backup. Alpha, you and Omicron are to be that backup. I want you armed and dressed for combat, not for rescue. No IR uniforms this time, but visors, caps, and your IR ordnance. If there's another emergency while we're gone, Delta, you're in charge. I can send Alpha from anywhere in the world to help if necessary, but if there's a call, you are to launch Two, taking Sigma and Theta with you. Rho can man the desk."

"What are _you_ going to be doing, Commander?" Alan asked, frowning.

"I'm going with Alpha and Omicron in Thunderbird One, but only as far as Los Angeles," Jeff explained. "There's just enough room in One for three people, and she would make four. So, you'll drop me off in L.A., Alpha, and I'll pick up the J... I'll pick up my jet and follow to Maine. Epsilon, get coordinates for a landing spot in Gardiner, NY, so Delta can call her and tell her to be there. ETA from Thunderbird One's launch will be roughly 45 minutes. Alpha, you'll pick her up and fly her out to Portland." He turned to Alan. "Sigma, I want you on the horn to Agent 173 and warn her of our arrival time at LAX. I'll need her to meet me out on the tarmac and drive me to the terminal, using a circuitous route."

"173's good at that," Gordon said, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "She's also good at getting lost."

"She won't get lost today, Omicron," Jeff replied, smiling grimly. "Not with me in the car. Sigma, I also want you to put our New England agents on alert. Find out whoever is closest to Portland and have them meet Omicron at the airport in a car. He'll be land-based backup, while Alpha will provide aerial backup."

"How will we be able to keep track of her?" Gordon asked.

Jeff ducked into his drawer and pulled out a small plastic bag. "Make her eat one of these," he said, tossing it to Gordon. "In fact, don't leave the ground until she does! Tell her I ordered it. That might help."

The aquanaut caught the bag and smiled at the edible transmitters inside. "I'm so glad we've dispensed with these!"

"Enough, Omicron. Okay, everyone. You have your orders. Thunderbirds are go!"

xxxx

"Calling LAX tower. This is International Rescue Thunderbird One, requesting emergency landing clearance," Scott intoned as they approached Los Angeles. He and Gordon were all dressed in black with visors covering their faces and the baseball caps covering their hair. Their father was dressed in dark clothes, and wore the face-concealing visor, but wore a leather bomber jacket to hide the shoulder holster he carried. The plan was for them to touch down briefly, let him out so he could dash into the car that Agent 173, also known as Mo Hedinori, would have waiting, and then lift off again, not even shutting down the engines. Then they were to rendezvous with Lou at a park near her home.

"I'm sorry, but I live out in a rural area. The nearest airport is across the Hudson," she had told Virgil when he had called back.

"LAX Tower to International Rescue Thunderbird One," the air traffic controller replied. "Your request for emergency landing clearance is granted. Will you require runway?" Since International Rescue had started operations, it had become common knowledge that the Thunderbirds were equipped with VTOL thrusters and didn't need a runway for landing anywhere. Still, it was standard operating procedure to offer it.

"Negative, LAX tower," Scott returned. "I require no runway and will be on the ground for less than ten minutes."

"Roger that, Thunderbird One. Use helijet pad four."

"Roger, LAX tower, and thanks."

Jeff stirred. He had spent the journey up to then thinking about Lou and just what his relationship with her was. _I always knew how important her friendship was to Lucille, but never realized the impact she had on me. She's the one person outside our family with whom I can be "just Jeff". Like I was with Lucille. Just me, the guy from Kansas whose only desire in life was to fly. Not the billionaire, not the hero, not the commander. Maybe that's another reason why I couldn't give Penny what she wanted. She seemed to subtly want me to be someone different, someone bigger than life. Lou accepts me, warts and all. _He rubbed the back of his neck. _Lou said she thought karma wasn't quite finished with us yet. Is it really possible to get a second chance?_

"Ready to go, Commander?" Gordon asked as Scott brought Thunderbird One to a gentle touchdown on the tarmac.

"Ready as I'll ever be. I'll see you two in Portland," the older man said. He grabbed the briefcase he had brought with him as he prepared to leave.

Scott opened the hatch, and the ladder eased down to the helijet pad. Jeff climbed down carefully, stiff from the flight. The gusts from Thunderbird One's VTOL's threatened to whip off his cap, and he held onto it as he hurried to the waiting sedan. He gave his sons a thumbs up as he opened the door, then he slipped inside.

The sedan pulled away and Thunderbird One lifted skyward again. "LAX tower, this is Thunderbird One. We are now en route to our next destination. Thanks for the assist."

"Thunderbird One, this is LAX tower. Glad to help out."

"Hey, Mr. T. Good to see you!" Mo cried when he got into the car. "Where to?"

"Tracy Industries hangar, but... take the long way 'round. Don't need people seeing us come from Thunderbird One and pull directly up to the hangar."

"F-A-B, sir!" she said with a mock-serious tone, saluting. "The JT-1 is fueled up and ready, and I've got the car with the chameleon paint."

"Even better," Jeff said as he leaned against the window to watch the dwindling speck that was Thunderbird One. He drew his gaze away from the sky and glanced over to nod at Mo. "Let's get this show on the road."

xxxx

Shelly shifted her position slightly to make herself more comfortable. The floor was carpeted, but it was very old carpet with padding that had seen better years. She sat cross-legged on the floor, moving her arms up and down at the elbows as much as she could, trying to keep the circulation going in her hands. She dearly wished he hadn't gagged her; but after his call to Lou, she had started in screaming at him, and he got sick of it fast, real fast. The bruise on her right cheek had been one payback for the verbal abuse; the gag was another.

Franks, as she now knew him to be, turned from the portable police scanner that had occupied his time since he had gagged her and glanced over at her from halfway across the room. "Uncomfortable are we, Shelly?" She glared back at him as she had all afternoon. The light was beginning to fail as the gloomy day wore on; soon even the large picture window wouldn't provide enough light to see by. However, Franks was confident that the tangle of evergreen bushes, which hid the house from the main road, would be enough to hide the glow of the lantern he had brought. Besides, he wasn't planning on being there very long after dark.

His eyes narrowed in thought as he looked at the older woman. He levered himself up onto his feet and approached her, liking the way she had to tilt her head back so far to keep him in view. Crouching down so that they were at near eye level again, he took out his gun and drew the warmed metal barrel slowly across her cheek. "You know, Shelly," he said conversationally as he slid the barrel down the side of her neck, "I've heard that women over forty are far more... shall we say, amorous... than their younger counterparts. I wonder if that's true?" The gun continued down, the end pushing aside her v-neck scrubs top and slowly tracing her collarbone. He smiled as he saw the muscles in Shelly's jaw clench tight and her eyes try to follow his movements, staying away from his face. "We could find out right now." Her head whipped around and she stared at him, wide-eyed with terror. He shook his head slightly and sighed. "No, I'd better save my energy for Luci; I'm sure she'll be a wildcat with me."

He got up and walked over to his scanner. Shelly's shoulders slumped in relief. Looking back at her, he said, "It would only be poetic justice, you know. Luci turned me in for romancing a witness. Oh, it was supposedly an 'anonymous' tip, but I knew where it came from. It finished my career in Interpol. Still, once I bring Luci back to my current employer, I expect to be rewarded handsomely." Chuckling at Shelly's look of surprise, he said, "Yes, Shelly. The disk I want is important, but not as important as your sister. My employer really wants to meet her." He glanced at his watch. "Seventy-five minutes."

Franks sat down by the scanner again. Shelly swallowed behind the gag, her jaw muscles relaxing. _I wish there were some way I could warn her, _she thought in despair. _But right now, he's got all the cards._

She glanced up at him again, and jumped, generating a muffled scream, her heart leaping into her throat. He was resting his gun on his forearm, which was propped on his knee, and sighting down its length as he pointed it straight at her. "Bang!" he said, laughing at her fright.

Shelly turned her face away, ashamed of how he'd managed to scare her. She was even more uncomfortable now, her panties were damp from her reaction. Tears of fear and frustration began to well up, dripping onto her scrubs. She felt small and helpless, and she wondered if her sister would be able to make it in time.

xxxx

Lou waited in the cover of some evergreen trees at the community park not far from Gardiner. Her van was safe in the parking lot, and the park was deserted, as the day had been rainy and raw. She wore dark clothes with the exception of her wine-red leather coat, and had a small black case slung over one shoulder. Her trusty Beretta, Oscar, rested in the case, along with some other bits of equipment she thought she might need. Consulting her watch, she sighed heavily. Virgil told her that his father had dispatched Thunderbird One, their fastest aircraft, to pick her up. _I just hope it can get me to Portland in time, _she fretted.

The sound of a jet engine coming closer captured her attention and she looked upward. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open as Thunderbird One arrived. "Oh, my God!" she whispered as the craft lowered towards the soccer field, wreathed by smoke, wings spread out fully, looking impressively powerful and sleek as it landed, light as a feather. She could still hear the engines running even though the flame of the VTOL jet was muted. A ladder appeared from under the body of the craft, and a figure in black with a shiny visor across half his face beckoned to her with an arm. Taking a deep breath, she sprinted across the field and ducked (though she didn't need to) under the wings to join the man who stood there. "Up you go!" came the familiar tenor voice of Gordon, as he indicated the ladder. She nodded, her face full of excitement, and climbed up into the 'Bird.

"Hello, Aunt Lucinda," came another familiar voice from above her. A man with Scott's very familiar dimples looked down at her with a small smile.

"Hello... what should I call you?" she asked.

"Alpha is my code name. His is Omicron."

"That's right, Greek letters. Very good," she said approvingly. "Wow! I saw the sketches and some long distance vid on that disk, but... they don't do justice to the reality! Your Thunderbird is magnificent!"

Her unbridled praise thawed Scott's still stubborn attitude a touch. "Thank you, Aunt Lou." He nodded toward Gordon. "Omicron? Don't you have something for our passenger?"

"F-A-B," Gordon said, digging into his pocket for the bag. "Here. Eat one of these."

Lou glanced from one young man to another. "What are they?"

"Transmitters," Scott replied. "I have orders from the commander not to budge until you've eaten one. He wants us to be able to keep track of you at all times."

"Edible transmitters?" she asked giving them each a skeptical look. "Did _you _eat one?"

"No, no," Gordon said with glee. "We don't have to anymore. We're microchipped."

"Ah, yes. Your fa... uh... commander said something about that." She pulled one from the bag and examined it carefully. "Will it... pass through in a few hours?"

Gordon chuckled. " 'Fraid not," he replied. "You'll have to drink some solvent to get rid of it."

"The transmitters taste good," Scott remarked, looking out his viewport. "Please eat it now so we can haul butt out of here."

"Oh, all right." Lou popped it in her mouth and found it easy to swallow. "Mmmm. You're right. Raspberry."

"Open your mouth," Gordon coaxed. "I want to make sure you ate it."

Lou shook her head, then opened her mouth wide and waggled her tongue at him. He chuckled again and said, "Okay, it's gone. Alpha, let's grab some air."

"ETA to Portland, eight minutes," Scott said as he took Thunderbird One back up into the sky.

xxxx

Alan sat in his father's chair, having just spoken with the agent who covered Maine and New Brunswick. That particular agent was on his way, but closer still was Virgil's old friend Angela, Agent 22. She was only an hour or so from Portland and would reach the airport there before the Maine agent could. Alan had made sure it was all right with her to take on this mission.

"Two calls in one week!" she had exclaimed excitedly. "I haven't done so much for IR in a long time. Sure, I'll help however I can."

The youngest Tracy was relieved. After he had heard about the letter, he wondered if those friends of _his_ who were agents were still in the network. He and Kenny had talked a lot about the letter while they worked on FAB-1, and it seemed that his friend was thinking it over thoroughly. _I'd hate for us to lose him as an agent, but even if we did, at least I'd know it wasn't a rash decision. And he'd still be my friend. _

"Base from Thunderbird Five," John said, coming into view on his portrait. Alan reached over and touched the button as Virgil approached the desk.

"Thunderbird Five from base, we read you five by five. What's the word, Epsilon?" Virgil asked.

"Thunderbird One has arrived in Portland, and has landed on one of their helijet pads. Agent 22 is fifteen minutes from the airport."

"How much time will we have from Agent 22's arrival before our subject needs to be where she's supposed be to get her instructions?"

"Fifty-five minutes."

"What's the Commander's ETA to the rescue zone?" Alan chimed in.

"About thirty minutes after Agent 22 arrives."

"That gives him enough time to rendezvous with the team, then." Virgil said.

"Yes, it does, though it's cutting things rather fine." John paused, then sighed. "I don't understand why Alpha was being such a bear about this."

"It's not our place to play vigilante," Virgil explained, holding out his palms as he sat on the edge of the desk top..

"But we have before," the space monitor countered. "Several times. The whole episode with the Pink Lady..."

"That was different," the musician said, waving a dismissive hand. "She's an agent."

"So what?" Alan challenged. "Our 'Aunt' has been doing as much as any agent to keep us safe from exposure. I say she deserves our help."

There was a moment of utter silence, then John said quietly, "Virge, Al, it's never before been a matter of who _deserves_ our help, in _any _situation. And in those situations where we've been acting as 'vigilantes', it's_ never _been that we only rescue our own."

Virgil looked thoughtful and nodded. "You're right. It never has been."

Alan added fervently, "I hope it never will be."

xxxx

Jeff swore. The storm that was blanketing the eastern seaboard was slowing him down more than he had anticipated. He had to gain altitude to fly over it, which meant a longer descent and a longer flight time. He spoke into the hands free unit that sat uncomfortably in his ear. _I'd probably be used to it if I wore it more, _he realized. _Maybe I should use my earpiece on the vidphone all the time. It might help me get accustomed to this... thing._ "Commander to Thunderbird Five, do you read?"

"Thunderbird Five here," John's voice sounded loud in his ear, and Jeff winced, wondering, _Is there a volume control on this? _John continued, "What's your situation, Commander?"

"I am being slowed down by the weather system that iscovering the east coast," he told his son. "Revised ETA, twenty-five minutes. Tell Thunderbird One to hold position until I can get there. The ground crew should go on ahead."

He could hear the hesitation in John's voice as he said, "F-A-B, Commander. Will pass along the message." _Yes, John. I know that will put me five minutes over the rendezvous time, but I can't help it. And I do want to be there when we take this bastard down!_

On the ground in Portland, Lou was ready to go. She reluctantly left her gun with Gordon. "He specified unarmed and will probably frisk me at some point during the proceedings." She pulled off the bandage she had put over her scratches, and replaced it with a fresh one. Then she carefully slipped a very thin wafer of stiff, white material between the padding of the bandage and the flexible outer layer. Reaching into her case, she handed a small device to Gordon. It looked like a music player, one small enough to fit into a shirt pocket. "Put the plug in your ear and turn it on," she instructed.

He obeyed, giving her an skeptical glance. When he had finished, she put her hand on her knee and said in a normal tone, "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah. I can... whoa!" Gordon sat back as he heard his own voice coming from his mouth and echoing back through the plug in his ear.

"Good. Do you hear any thumping?"

Gordon shook his head. "No, I don't"

"Excellent. That means you're not picking up my pulse. I've always got to be careful where I put this; sometimes a heartbeat or pulse has been detected by whoever was listening. If you need to turn down the volume, go ahead. And if you remove the earplug and touch this switch," she took the device from him and demonstrated, "that activates the speaker."

"Cool!" Gordon said, turning down the volume immediately as he heard his own voice coming out of the speaker. "Where'd you get this?"

"Interpol. A later invention that Franks might not be aware of. It was developed after his dismissal," Lou explained. "Uh, Alpha? Do you want to tune in to the frequency this is on?"

"Sure," Scott replied. "The Commander will feel better if he can hear what's going on."

He took the device and tuned his on-board communicator to the frequency of the small receiver, eliciting a feedback shriek from his speakers. Lou moved quickly to retrieve the device and turn it off. She handed it back to Gordon.

"Thunderbird One from Thunderbird Five," John's voice sounded in Scott's ear. "Agent 22 has arrived at your location and is waiting for passengers. And the commander will be late. His orders are for Thunderbird One to hold position until he arrives. The ground crew should go on as scheduled."

Scott glanced over at Lou and Gordon, and said simply, "Your ride is here."

"Then we should go," Lou said softly. "It will take a few minutes to get to Biddeford and I'd rather be early than late."

"F-A-B," Gordon said. He handed her a visor and a cap. "You might as well look official. I'm sure there are people watching us, even though we're at the helijet pad farthest from the terminal."

"Right." She donned the gear and picked up her case. "Let's go."

Scott opened the hatch, and Gordon lowered the ladder. He climbed down first and waited for her to do the same. Scott watched them hurry across the tarmac toward the helijet terminal and the parking lot beyond. "Good luck, Gords, Aunt Lou," he said quietly. "I think we're all going to need it."


	33. Knights' Fork

_Author's Note: _Lou lays herself on the line for her sister. And an Ivy cap is a flat cap with a snap on the bill to keep it flat. I misspelled the Maine town near Kennebunkport and Portland in the last chapter but I've fixed it now. My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading and to her and fellowriverrat for being sounding boards. No reviews on 32 yet, but I'm rolling on.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

Gordon sat in back on the way to the Biddeford's tiny airport. He tapped his earpiece and quietly said, "Thunderbird Five from Omicron. Do you read?" 

"Thunderbird Five here, reading you four by four," came the quick, steady response. "What is your situation?"

"I want a locator check on myself, Alpha, the Commander, and, uh, _her_." He didn't have anything he felt he could call Lou and he didn't want to use her name any more than necessary.

"Alpha reads still at Portland jetport, the Commander is still airborne, making progress toward Portland. You and our honorary agent are heading south towards Biddeford," John replied succinctly. He had the gold, blue, orange, and red dots on his locator screen. Usually the red dot meant their grandmother, who adored the raspberry transmitters. But no longer. Now her dot was a blinking yellow, the strobe indicating that she was not an active operative. The Thunderbird pilots all had steady lights, as did Lady Penelope, whose pink light sat firmly in Australia. Their father, as commander, had a steady one as well, a darker, shinier color than Virgil's, almost a coppery tone. His own was purple, he knew, but it didn't appear on the screen. Only when he was on the ground would it be evident.

"F-A-B," Gordon replied. "Just wanted to make sure you had a reading on the edible transmitter."

"I do, and I'm zeroing in on your GPS position to keep a closer watch," John replied. He clicked on the screen with his wireless mouse and the picture zoomed in until he basically had a road map of the area. The red and orange dots were traveling together along Interstate 95 and were about to get off the highway and onto the side roads that would take them to the actual municipal airport. He checked one of the digital clocks that was set for Greenwich Mean Time, subtracted five hours, and sighed. _They don't have much more time._

xxxx

Franks looked at his watch. "Okay. Time to go," he said. He pulled a length of rope from his suitcase, and crossing the room, he forcefully shoved Shelly over onto her left side, intending to tie her ankles together. She kicked out at him as hard as she could, one foot after another, making it difficult for him.

"You stupid bitch," he muttered darkly. Pulling his gun from its holster, he smashed the butt against her right kneecap. Shelly screamed from behind the gag, her head arching back from the pain as bone cracked from the force. She stopped kicking, drawing her wounded knee upward, as she curled in on herself, sobbing. Franks put his gun away, slipped the rope under her other ankle, then pulled down the right one, eliciting another cry of pain. He tied the ankles together firmly, then stood.

"Stupid bitch. If you had cooperated, I would have been sweet. But you had to make things difficult, didn't you?" He looked at his watch again. "I'll be back soon. It's time to pick up your sister at the airport."

He walked away, leaving behind a pain-wracked Shelly, whose upper body slumped further to the floor, her tear-stained cheek resting on the carpet. _Oh, God! Please! Get us out of this!_

xxxx

"Here we are," Angela said softly as she pulled up in front of the Biddeford municipal airport.

Lou looked back at Gordon. "Don't forget the listening device," she said.

He nodded and lifted the small receiver, turning it on. "We'll find a spot in the parking lot and keep an eye out for you," he assured her.

With a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped out into the rain. Gordon watched as she walked briskly into the building.

"I think I see a spot over there," Angela said, pointing.

"Looks good to me," Gordon said, following her indicating finger. "Let's go."

xxxx

Once inside the building, Lou looked around slowly, taking in the details. Finally, her eyes rested on what she wanted, a row of public pay phones. She walked over to them with an easy stride. _He said second from the left. _She hovered near the bank of vidphones, glancing at her watch and saying softly, "I'm at the vidphones now. Just waiting for his..." Her narrative broke off as the one she had been eyeing began to ring. Letting out a huff of breath and trying hard to ignore the butterflies in her stomach, she stepped up and answered the call.

Franks's smug face greeted her. "There you are, Luci. Thought you might not make it. I'm sure Shelly is very glad that you did. And I see you took my advice about law enforcement as well. Very smart of you."

"I made it, Franks. Now what?" she asked bluntly.

"Now, you take off your jacket, and come out to the curb, then get into the back seat of the sedan that will drive up. You'll know which one it is. Hurry, Luci. Shelly's waiting for you." The call disconnected.

She took off her red leather coat. "I hope you heard that," she murmured. "I'm to get into a car at the curb, a sedan." Stepping outside into the rain, she walked slowly down the pavement outside the doors, her jacket over her arm. She heard a car pull up behind her and swung around to face it. The windshield was covered with rain, but between the swipes of the wipers, she could see the figure that she had learned to loathe sitting in the driver's seat.

She strode up to the car and opened the back door. Franks turned to her. "Hello, Luci. Just toss that jacket in here, then climb in after it."

"Where is she, Franks?" Lou demanded, her eyes hard. "I'm here, now where is she?"

"Where is she?" Franks echoed. "She's safe for now. Just get in the car and we'll go see her."

Lou sighed heavily, then threw her jacket inside, and climbed in after it.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," Franks ordered. "Put your right hand through there," he instructed, indicating the front passenger seat headrest, pushed up as far as it would go on its metal rods. She complied, and he took a pair of handcuffs that had been lying on the seat next to him, fastening first the right wrist, then enclosing the left. When he finished the job, he pushed on the headrest again, bringing it down a couple of notches. "There, that should hold you. And it will look like you're just leaning up to talk to me," he said as he put the car in gear and drove off.

Lou, leaning forward uncomfortably, her hands resting on the seat before her, squelched the strong desire to glance back and see if Gordon and his chauffeur were following. _Come on, guys. Follow us. Follow us now so we can save Shelly._

xxxx

Jeff brought his JT-1 in for a landing at Portland's main airport. He had given some thought to how he could camouflage himself as he transferred from his jet to Thunderbird One, and had brought a change of outer clothes. These he had donned before he left the car at the Tracy Industries hangar. Once he had taxied over to the private jet hangar and had parked his craft in the space reserved for it, he got out, dressed in a brown, green and yellow tweed jacket with a matching Ivy cap. The tweed was loud enough to draw attention to itself, and hopefully only to itself, letting people's eyes slide over the features of the man who wore it. His leather jacket, visor, and ball cap resided in his briefcase, and he knew he had to take the time to change into them before heading out to the waiting Thunderbird.

He dashed into the Portland facility, trying to avoid getting soaked, and walking briskly once he was in there. _Look like you know what you're doing. Look like you're supposed to be here, _he instructed himself as he walked along. Very few people met his eyes or looked at his face; they were all hurrying along to get to their destination or doing what they could to keep to themselves in this most public of places. Only the children looked up at his tweed coat in fascination.

Walking the length of the terminal, he came to a quieter area: the helijet departures wing. He ducked into a men's room and marched right into a stall. Only two other men were in there, one washing his hands and the other using the urinal. He listened carefully as he changed over from tweed to leather jacket. He heard the water stop running, and then the urinal flushed and the water at the sink ran again. When it stopped, and the whirring of the air dryer ceased, he put on his cap and stepped out. The tweed cap and coat were already back in his briefcase, and he slipped on the visor as he left the empty men's room.

Heading for the departure doors, he stopped as a he heard someone run after him, calling, "Sir, sir! You can't go out there without going through security."

_I do **not** have time for this! I knew I should have taken the jacket Tin-Tin made for Gordon,_ he grumbled internally. _To hell with their security. Let them chase me down._

He took a deep breath and quickened his pace. Hitting the doors that led to the outside and the helijet pads, he lowered his head and broke into a run, hearing an alarm go off behind him. Tapping his communicator, he called between breaths, "Commander to Thunderbird One. Fire up the engines! I am on my way!"

Scott was getting antsy about his father's tardiness. He knew that the JT-1 had landed, but had seen neither hide nor hair of his dad. _Lou is already getting instructions, and is on her way to meet her sister's kidnapper! _He was startled out of his thoughts by the sound of his father's voice in his ear, shouting instructions at him. Quickly, he went through his basic preflight checks, then started the engines, waiting for his father to arrive before activating the thrusters. He opened the hatch, and let down the ladder in preparation for his passenger's arrival.

Jeff's visor was quickly speckled with rain even though the bill of his cap kept the majority of the moisture off. He was heartened to hear the whine and rumble of Thunderbird One's engines before him even as he heard the shout of airport security behind him. A gust of wind threatened to remove his cap, but he slammed his free hand down on it and kept on going. The ladder dropped down into view and he stepped up the pace. Security forces had halted their pursuit; it was now plain to them that this was a member of International Rescue and that he was expected by the Thunderbird that sat on the helijet pad.

Jeff climbed up into the cockpit, wet and breathless, tossing his briefcase in as soon as his shoulders passed through the hatch.

"What was the hold up?" Scott asked his father.

"Someone tried to stop me getting out here. I should have worn the jacket that Tin-Tin made for Gordon. It at least had the logo on it." Jeff complained. He pulled up the ladder and motioned to Scott to close the hatch. "What's the situation?"

"She's received her instructions and she got into a sedan driven by Franks. No sign of her sister," Scott recounted as he lifted Thunderbird One into the air. "Omicron and Agent 22 are following at a distance. I'm tuned in to an audio transmitter that she has planted on her person. So far, other than a few instructions that Franks gave her when she first got into the car, they haven't said much."

"Do we have their location?" the commander asked.

"I'm about to get coordinates from Epsilon."

"Good. Let's follow this bastard right to his lair," Jeff said grimly. "He's going to pay for putting Lou through this."

xxxx

"Is that him up there?" Gordon asked. He had transferred to the front seat and was trying to keep the sedan in sight. But the rain, as off and on heavy as it was, and the growing darkness, made the task difficult.

"I think so," Angela replied, squinting a bit to make sure. He glanced at her. The agent was older than Scott, short and pudgy, with straight black hair that curled under at the ends. Her light brown skin gave her a tanned look, and her Texas accent had sounded strange in his ear at first.

_I'll have to ask Virge where he met this woman, and why he recruited her to be an agent, _Gordon said to himself. His thoughts were interrupted by sounds coming from his transceiver.

Lou had sat silently in the sedan, looking ahead, trying to remember landmarks should she need them. _We've moved out to the country it seems. Just subdivision entrances along the sides of the road and stretches of forest or farmland between. _She noticed Franks glancing in the rear view mirror from time to time. _Yes, we're being followed, but I hope you can't see them._

"Your sister has a mouth on her," Franks said out of the blue. "She was screaming obscenities at me... I really had to get rough with her." His eyes checked her face for her reaction, but she merely stared ahead, a scowl on her face.

There was quiet between them again, then he said, "I hope you brought that disk along. My employer is very anxious to get it." He chuckled. "I have to hand it to you, Luci. You are one conniving bitch. That..." His voice trailed off as he realized that what he was about to say implicated him in the attack in North Carolina.

"That fake disk I gave you," she prompted, her eyes still staring straight ahead.

He shot her a look, incredulous for a moment, then his face settled into a small, wry smile. "So, you knew. Yeah, that fake disk you gave us was well done. Took me quite a while to figure it out. And the termite? That was brilliant, as nice a piece of code as I've ever encountered. I underestimated you, Luci, I really did. Thought we had broken you to get that disk." He paused, and his voice changed from almost admiring to hard. "It's a mistake I _won't_ make again."

_That's what you think,_ she said to herself. _You already have._

xxxx

Shelly's pain had receded to a dull throb. She was careful not to move at all, for even the slightest twitch seemed to bring fire from the injury. She had tried to lever herself back up onto her side, which meant moving her hips. Shifting her hips meant pulling up the leg and the knee, and moving the knee had generated a shot of savage pain. Yet, she couldn't relax either, for then the injured part would touch the floor. _It's broken. I know the patella's broken, _she thought. _Possibly more than that. Oh, God. It hurts!_

The room around her was getting dark and the cold of the dismal day was seeping into the house. She began to shiver even with her warm cardigan. The carpet smelled foul and musty, and she turned her head enough that her nose wasn't in such close contact with it any more. Her eyes began to close on their own and she fought to keep them open. _Have to stay awake for Lou. Have to be ready when she gets here and takes this bastard down. Can't relax; it will hurt so much!_

xxxx

John's attention was split between feeding coordinates and directions to Thunderbird One and Gordon, keeping an ear on the numerous messages that still came in to Thunderbird Five's receivers, and giving Virgil and Alan updates on the situation. He had turned back to the locator screen after one such update and noticed the orange dot going one way... and the red dot going another. "Omicron from Epsilon! You've lost them!"

"Damn!" Gordon shouted. "Angela! We've lost them somehow!"

"It's this rain!" Angela cried. "It's so hard to see!"

Gordon took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. "I know, Angela, I know. Let's calm down and get back on their trail, okay? Epsilon, where do we need to go?"

"First of all, turn around," John directed. Gordon relayed the instruction and Angela, biting her lower lip, found a driveway to make the turn.

Once they were heading in the opposite direction, Gordon asked, "Now what?"

"About half a kilometer down the road, there'll be a left hand turn for you to take," John said, keeping a sharp eye on the screen. There was a silence as the pair drove along, slowing down. He heard Gordon say to Angela, "There. There it is."

"Okay, he's at least a kilometer or more ahead of you," John said as he saw the orange dot turn onto the road taken by the red one. "I've got to update Thunderbird One about the coordinates. Be right back."

"F-A-B, Epsilon," Gordon said. He glanced over at Angela, whose face he could barely see by the light of the controls. He knew she was still stinging over his outburst. He put a hand on her arm. "Listen, I'm sorry for shouting like that. I know this isn't what you signed up for."

Angela took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Apology accepted. No, I didn't sign on for this, but if it's what you need, I'm willing to do it. Your... _our _organization does a lot of good, and I want to be of help if I can."

Now it was Gordon's turn to take in a deep breath and let it out. "Thank you," he said simply. Looking forward he said, "Look, those must be his tail lights. We'll catch up with this bastard yet."

xxxx

Jeff was silent as he and Scott passed over the same area that Gordon and Angela were taking on land. They had a problem; the cloud ceiling was so low that if they flew beneath it, they might be noticed, but the clouds themselves were so high that to rise above them meant they might not get to the place where they were needed in time. Scott opted to fly just within the lower edge of the cloud cover, unseen from the ground, but available for a speedy rescue. They circled the area, adjusting the loop as the culprit moved along. The new coordinates meant a bit of straightforward flight to adjust the loop.

"Where the hell is he taking her?" Scott asked aloud. He was startled when his father answered his question.

"Somewhere remote and deserted, where he thinks he won't be spotted," Jeff murmured. "I just hope he hasn't hurt her sister. Lou would never forgive herself if Shelly were injured or killed because of her."

Scott squirmed a bit in his seat. Jeff noticed, and looked up at his son from the jump seat. "What's wrong, Scott?"

The pilot glanced down at his father, then back out the view port. "This isn't a good time to talk about it, Dad. Later, I promise."

"Okay. Later then," Jeff said, acknowledging his son's choice.

Just then, an excited voice cut in. "Thunderbird One from Thunderbird Five. Our subject has stopped! Definitely stopped. Here are the coordinates." John rattled off a string of numbers. Scott plugged them into his onboard guidance system.

"F-A-B, Thunderbird Five. We have the coordinates." Scott's voice rang with confidence and relief to finally be going into action.

Jeff quietly checked his gun. He was ready to deal with Jim Franks.


	34. Rook Takes Queen

_Author's Note: _Lou and Shelly in the hands of Jim Franks. My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading and for being a sounding board. No reviews on 33 yet, but I have to continue.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

"Well, here we are, Luci," Franks said as he pulled the sedan around to the back of the dark house. "This is where I left Shelly." He turned off the headlights but activated the interior ones by opening his door. "Now, this is the tricky part. Getting you out of this car and into the house without you clobbering me. Fortunately, I came prepared." He reached over to open the glove compartment, stretching his body across the space between the two seat backs. 

_Now's my chance!_ Lou grabbed the back of the passenger seat with one hand on each side, stood on one bent leg, her body hidden behind the chair, and kicked out with her left foot. She caught Franks in the back, shoving his gut into the steering wheel and his face down between the central console and the bench, folding down the armrests with her knee.

"Bitch! Let me up!" he shouted, his voice a mixture of surprise and pain.

"No way, you bastard," she growled. Putting her left knee on the upholstery, she swung her body through the partially open space, over the fold-down arm rests, dragging the cuffs around to the front. She smiled grimly as she slammed her other foot into his back.

"Damn you, bitch!" Franks shouted as his face smashed into the sound system a second time. He felt his nose swelling and warm blood dripping down around his mouth.

Lou smiled again as she moved closer to door, her right leg shoving hard between his shoulder blades, keeping him from rising. He pressed down and back with his hands, trying to slide out backwards, as her hands fumbled with the release catch of the headrest. She opened it and pushed up with all her might. It rose to its highest level, then stopped.

"Come on, come on!" she muttered as she fingered the catch again and pushed up once more. This time, the headrest released, flying out and into the back seat. "Yes!"

Lou opened the passenger door and started to climb out, shoving Franks backwards. His legs fell outside the car, and he levered himself off the floor, grabbing for her. "Damn you! Come back here!" He threw himself across the seat and snagged her retreating ankle with both hands, trying to pull her back into the car.

"You bastard!" she cried. "Let me go!" She pulled and shook her leg, trying to twist her ankle out of his grasp. Grinning he began to drag himself up her leg, one hand at a time, his fingernails digging into the fabric of her slacks.

Eyes narrowing, she hissed, "Want to play rough, do you?" She twisted at the hips, grabbed the top of the sedan and swung in with the other leg, her foot smashing into Franks's already scratched and bloody face, pushing him back with a powerful kick.

"You're getting predictable, Luci," he warned, as he reached out to grab the other flailing leg, pushing it down and pinning it with his chest until he could get a better grip. Then, with his strong hands squeezing Lou's bucking ankles, he backed out of the car again and yanked. Then yanked again.

It was the third sharp jerk that did it. Lou's bound hands weren't well positioned to take her weight, and the car's top was slick with rain. Her grabbing fingers slipped more each time he pulled until finally they were yanked free of the door frame altogether, breaking fingernails in the process. "Aaaggh!" she screamed as she fell with a thump on the upholstered bench, her body pulled wholly back within the car.

"Gotcha!" Franks cried as he threw himself on top of her, knocking the wind from her lungs. She gasped desperately for breath, unable to speak, yet still trying to inflict as much damage as she could with her bound hands. Her ragged fingernails raked up his neck and across his cheeks and her fists grabbed his dyed hair and pulled sharply, painfully tearing it out in clumps.

"Damn, but you're going to pay for that, bitch," he hissed as his left hand fumbled around in the glove compartment. Her body twisted and arched up beneath his as she fought both to get air into her lungs and escape his grasp. Just as she was able to gasp in a breath, his fingers closed on what he was looking for: a hypospray.

"This is different stuff, but I hope it works just as well," he muttered as he shoved her head up and to the right while he zeroed in on the left side of her neck with the hypospray, injecting her with the drug he had prepared. Her struggles grew more and more feeble as the drug took effect, until at last she stopped struggling altogether. Her head lolled to one side, eyes half open.

"That's more like it," he said as he pushed himself off of her. He grabbed the cuffs by the single middle link and hauled her limp body into a sitting position. Taking the keys from the ignition, he slid her out on the driver's side, and pulled her into a fireman's carry. He closed the door with his foot, and carried her into the house. _The disk is probably in her jacket. I'll come back for it in a minute._

He walked through the kitchen and into the living room, laying her down on the floor near the scanner so he could turn on the battery operated lamp. Glancing over at Shelly, he could see the glitter of the light reflected in older woman's eyes. "Hey, Shelly!" he taunted as he unlocked Lou's cuffs then roughly rolled her over to fasten her wrists behind her back. "Look who's here!"

Shelly could say nothing. She just closed her eyes and began to shake with sobs.

xxxx

Gordon had instructed Angela to drop him off near the drive to the house. "Take your car and park farther up, off the road where you can't be seen. Then lock up and stay low. I'll knock on the passenger's side window when I come back, okay? If someone shows that isn't with us, lean on the horn, long and loud."

Angela swallowed. "F-A-B." She had heard the struggle going on between Lou and Franks, and suddenly, she realized how dangerous this assignment had become.

Her companion smiled reassuringly. "You stay safe. It should be over soon."

"Right."

With that, Gordon got out of the car and Angela drove slowly up the road. He touched a stud on the left side of his visor, and the expanse of polyhexane shifted to detect an infrared spectrum. He tapped his communicator. "Omicron to Thunderbird One. I'm going in to reconnoiter."

"F-A-B," Scott's voice called. "ETA to landing, three-point-five minutes. We'll be landing in the field behind the house."

"F-A-B," Gordon replied grimly. He took a deep breath and began to move toward the house, walking in a defensive crouch and hiding behind every bush.

xxxx

Once he got Lou into the house and secured, he took the lamp with him to the half bath off the kitchen. There was a partial roll of toilet paper still on the dispenser, and he opened up the tank to get at the relatively clean water inside. Looking in the dusty mirror, he cleaned his face of blood, and pressed closed one side of his nose to stop the fresh flow that threatened to undo his work. "Damn, but Luci messed me up!" he muttered. "But I'll make her pay! I have plenty of time for it."

After tending to his face, Franks took care of some unfinished business outside. He shut the front passenger side door, then trotted around and opened the one on the rear driver's side to pull out Lou's coat and sling it over a shoulder as he went back inside. He had left the lamp in the bathroom, and on his return from the car, he picked it up again and returned to the living room. "Hello again, ladies. Miss me?" he said mockingly. Putting the lamp down next to Lou, he searched through all the pockets of her coat and came up empty. "Damn! Where'd she put that disk? Could she have it hidden on her?" His eyebrow went up and a small smile crossed his face, making him wince as the scratches on his cheeks and forehead made themselves felt. _Time for a little fun. _

He rolled Lou over onto her back and straddled her thighs. "Hey, Luci, I can't find that disk in your coat, so I guess I'd better frisk you," he said, sliding his hand up under her dark sweater. "So, you want to tell me where it is?"

Lou knew she was drugged, but didn't know what Franks had used. Her mind was relatively clear, but her body was lethargic and wouldn't respond to her commands. She could feel Franks's hand smoothing across her abdomen and working its way upward, but she found could do nothing about it. It was even an effort to speak, but she managed, slurred as it was. "Ge' yer 'and out o' there."

"Oh, I'm just making sure you don't have the disk taped under here or something. And I'm making sure you're not wired for sound," he replied with a sly tone. He put one hand down on the floor and leaned on that arm so he could reach up higher. "Tell me where it is, and I'll stop."

Lou wanted to shudder at his touch, but couldn't even do that. "Ge' off me, ya bast'd. Don' 'ave it," she told him. She tried to roll away, and failed.

"Don't have it? Really? That's too bad. Means I can keep doing this," Franks asked, slipping a hand under her bra. "What did you do with it?" He glanced over at Shelly and saw the glint of eyes again. _She's watching. Let's give her an eyeful. _He smiled, painful as it was, and continued his explorations.

"Tole ya 'n Assshhh ville," Lou said with an effort, trying and failing to bring her leg up to kick him off. "D'stroyed it."

"You, destroying information? That's not like you, Luci," Franks traced her collarbone with a finger, his hand still up her shirt, pushing it up to expose her side. His eyes flicked over to Shelly, who was still watching. _If looks could kill, I'd be planted the way ole Shelly is glaring at me._

Lou squirmed inside. "Ge' yer han' outta m' shirt, creep!"

"But why did you destroy it, Luci? Why didn't you want to keep it?" Franks pressed, bringing his hand back down to ghost it over her chest, feeling a slow exciting response beneath his fingers.

It was getting harder for Lou to talk. Her lips felt numb and her tongue rubbery. Still, she tried. "Sum inf'mation too much fo' anyb'dy. E'en me."

"Well, I guess I go back without the disk," Franks said, a regretful tone in his voice, dragging his hand slowly back down to her waist. "But I'm not going back empty-handed. I'll be taking you with me." He had pulled his hand out from under her sweater, and was now stroking his hands over her sides and hips.

"Stop 't. Why ya wan' me?"

Franks stared at her navel as he began to unbuckle her belt. "Oh, I'm not the one who wants you. My employer does." He slowly pulled the zipper down and slipped his hand inside her slacks. _Don't have much more time until this stuff knocks her out, _he realized. _But we'll have time for more fun later. _

"Gaat?"

Franks withdrew his hand in surprise. "Where'd you hear that?"

He could swear there was a tiny, smug smile on her face as she picked her head up slightly and with a great effort to look down the length of her torso at him. " 'Ave m' sources."

"Well, I don't know what you heard or where, but you'll get to meet my boss face to face." _Enough of this. I've still got to fly south and I have business to take care of first. _He got up, and put his hands under her armpits, dragging her over to the wall. He propped her limp form up, resting one side against the wall so she was facing Shelly. "We've got to leave soon, you and I," he said. He took out his gun and checked the ammunition out of habit. "But first, there's a matter of payback for what you did to my face... and of course, eliminating the witnesses."

xxxx

Jeff and Scott moved along silently, their guns at the ready, the infrared mode of their visors helping them see in the dark. Scott reached up to swipe some moisture away from the surface of his. He hissed, "How much farther to the house? From what we heard as we landed, Franks was beginning to interrogate Lucinda."

"Yes," Jeff shot back sharply. "And I know how he interrogates. I think we're close. I wish we could draw him outside. I'd feel much better taking him down without the women present."

"So would I. But I don't think we'll be able to. He's too... busy with the women," Scott said with disgust.

"Right. So let's pick up the pace. Lou's been pawed over enough by this bastard."

Meanwhile, Gordon had made it to the house and was peering in from a side window. It wasn't easy to see inside; the screen covering the glass obscured things somewhat. He scowled to see Franks's hand up Lucinda's shirt and her apparently unable to stop him. He knew from the fight he had heard that Franks had used some kind drug on her, and the slurred voice just confirmed those suspicions. He scanned the room carefully from his vantage point. _I don't see Lou's sister from where I am. I'd better circle around to that window on the other side and get an idea of where she is. _He crept off again, edging under the wide opening and past the front door to the far side of the house.

Scott's voice sounded in one of his ears, even as Lou mentioned Gaat's name in the other. "Omicron. we are approaching the rear left corner of the house, near the subject's car, and the back door. Where are you?"

"I'm at the front right corner, looking in through a window. Both women are in the room. The sister is lying in the front left corner and our subject is lying at about the midpoint of the room, next to a doorway. He's been talking about taking her with him to meet his employer. Wait!" Gordon stopped speaking suddenly, and watched as Franks began to prop Lou up against the wall. "He's moved her, propping her up against the wall. Damn! He's taking out his gun and talking about payback and eliminating the witnesses!"

Jeff and Scott had reached the back door and were looking at each other. "I'll go inside," Jeff instructed. "You head over to the left side of the house. See if you can sight him through that window." Scott nodded, and left, creeping carefully along the side of the house. "Omicron, see what you can do from there. If he threatens either of them with that gun..."

"F-A-B," Gordon replied. "I know what to do."_ But first I have to get this screen out of the way! _He reached up and tried to yank the offending object out of its frame. _Wish I had brought along a knife!_

xxxx

Franks shrugged off his jacket and dropped it to the floor. His movements were almost casual. He sighted along the gun at Shelly, then turned back to Lou.

"Payback time. You'd better say goodbye now, Luci," he said. "Too bad you actually did as I asked and came here alone. I guess you never did learn from that shooting, did you? But then, I know you too well. You're too damn honorable and it will be the death of you yet. Just not today."

Lou's eyelids were drooping, getting heavier, and she slurred a barely audible, "No!"

Franks ignored her. He walked over to Shelly and crouched down beside her, removing the gag. "It's been nice knowing you, Shelly. Too bad we couldn't have tested out that theory, but like I said, Luci will be my test subject. Say goodbye to your sister now." He stroked a hand across her bruised cheek, and stood up, stepping away from her.

"You bastard," Shelly croaked, her voice rough with disuse. Then she began to sob, a sound of terror and helplessness from her very heart. Between sobs she called hoarsely, "I'm so sorry, Lou! Don't blame yourself for this! Tell my kids, tell Chuck that I love them! I love you, sis!" She saw Lou struggle to keep her eyes open, trying to make eye contact with her. Shelly screwed her eyes shut tightly as Franks stood over her, his gun sighted for real this time.

Lou tried to keep her eyes open, but they closed on their own. No matter how hard she tried to open them again; she couldn't. She heard her sister call, but it was as from a distance, and try as she might, she couldn't answer. Her nerveless body slid towards the floor, coming to rest face down with a small thump on the old carpet._ I love you, Shelly! _was her last thought. But before she slipped fully into darkness there was the sound of breaking glass, and a shout, and a loud explosion that reverberated in her ears.

Shelly's self-control was lost in her terror of dying. Her scrubs pants darkened with wetness. She leaned over, sobbing, burying her face in the carpet again, not caring that her knee renewed its hot agony as it touched the floor. She didn't hear the shout, or the glass breaking, but she did hear the explosion. Then a hot searing pain pressed against the back of her head, and Shelly Clarendon's world truly went black.


	35. End Game

_Author's Note: _The aftermath. My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading and being a sounding board.

**Math Girl: **Franks is a nasty, no doubt about it. I would think that the edible transmitters would be a pain, too, in more ways than one. As for your other questions, read on.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

Beep... beep... beep... beep... beep... 

_Somebody turn off that blasted alarm clock!_

From somewhere came a soft moan. She was sure it wasn't from _her _mouth, but somebody else heard it.

"Mom?"

_Rachel? What the h...? _

She struggled to open her eyes. The lids fluttered a bit as she did, and that produced another soft sound and another reaction.

"Mom? Dad! Dad! Come quick! I think she's coming around!"

There was a flurry of footsteps, then another welcome voice. "Shelly? Come on, honey. Wake up!"

Her eyelids finally went up, at least a little, and she blinked, squinting. She swallowed; her mouth felt dry. The people around her were just flesh-colored blobs at first, but eventually they resolved into two familiar faces, both with near identical expressions of worry and hope.

"Chuck? Rachel?" she croaked.

"Mom! Oh, Mom!" Rachel exclaimed, her voice full of tears. "We were so worried!"

Now her other senses clamored for attention. She raised a hand to feel the back of her head, which was bandaged and throbbed with pain. Her right knee was immobilized and that hurt, too. There was a familiar scent on the air, one that approximated her workplace, sharp and antiseptic. Her eyes opened more and she took in her surroundings.

_Hospital room. The beeping is an... EKG. Oh, thank you, God!_

"I'm alive." Every muscle in her relaxed for a moment, then she reached out for her husband. "Oh, thank God! Chuck! I'm alive!"

Chuck smiled back at her, his eyes moist. "Yeah, Shelly. You're alive. We were so worried." He reached out and took one of her hands, and placed a kiss in her palm. He gently stroked her bruised cheek with a knuckle, then carefully cupped the same cheek with a hand and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead.

She reached out again with her one free hand toward Rachel. "Oh, God. I thought I'd never see you again!"

Her daughter leaned in, tears streaking her cheeks. "I was so scared, Mom. I'm so glad you're awake." Her lips gently touched her mother's cheek as Shelly's hand went around her neck and pulled her close.

Chuck smiled at the interchange, then said, "Rachel, page the doctor or a nurse and tell them that your mother's awake."

"Okay, Dad," Rachel replied with a nod as she pressed the call button.

A nurse answered with a weary, "Yes? How can I help you?"

"My mom is awake. You might want to send the doctor in."

"Good! I'll get her as soon as possible."

Shelly sighed, relaxing even more, contented in the moment and the love of her family. But something niggled at the back of her mind, and she frowned, quickly changing her expression as the muscles in her face protested. Tears welled up, tears of gratitude and of sudden fear with clutched at her heart as the memories of the past few hours began to resurface.

Chuck noticed. He grabbed a tissue from the stand next to her bed and dabbed at her cheeks. "What's wrong, honey?"

His wife swallowed heavily, and bit her lower lip, gazing with a worried expression at her husband. Then she asked simply, "Where's Lou?"

xxxx

"Uhhh."

Heavy eyelids slid open once, twice, closed again, then opened again halfway and stayed open. It was dark, but not pitch black. She could make out the gray edges of a tall window as she turned her head to the left. She ached all over; every joint and muscle felt stressed and stretched out. But she shifted onto her side and suddenly became aware that she could do it. This realization woke her a bit more and she began to test each extremity, stretching and moving them, feeling the achiness diminish as she did so. Finally, she sat up, pushed back the covers of the bed, rubbed her back with both hands, and swung her legs over the side.

Lou turned to scan the unfamiliar room as best she could in the darkness._ Where am I? _she wondered. _How'd I get here? Last thing I remember was Franks standing over Shelly... _She gasped, covering her mouth just a tad too late to keep someone from hearing her. _Oh no! Dear God, no! Please don't let her be dead!_

Her head drooped as she braced herself on the edge of the mattress, and tears spilled unbidden down her face. _What have I done? I let Franks take me to try and save her. I should have called the police! What happened to Scott and Gordon? Why weren't they watching my back? _

She sobbed and cried for several minutes, letting out some of her frustration and grief, then she thought, _This isn't doing anyone any good. If Scott and Gordon can still track me, they'll find me and I can always call... _She squinted down at the back of her hand where she had placed the bandage with the transmitter circuitry in it, then she felt it with her other hand. All she felt were four ridges of skin that stung when she touched them. _Damn! The transceiver is gone._

_So what do I do now? _she asked herself, wiping her face with the bed sheet. _For all I know, Franks took me to Gaat and I'm being watched. Still, I have to know my situation. _

Standing carefully, she fought against the vertigo she felt on rising and when she felt she was steady, she moved over to open the blinds. The view was odd; a mist swirled outside the window, lit from below by some kind of light, one that turned what would normally be a dark vista into a bank of light gray fog. No trees or other darker objects could be discerned _One thing's for sure, I'm not on a Caribbean island! Now for the room itself. First, some light._

She reached over for the lamp, the contours of which she could see by the little bit of light shining past the blinds. The light came on at her touch and she sighed in relief, turning to take in the room. She had been sleeping on a queen sized bed in a tastefully furnished bedchamber, but who it belonged to, she couldn't tell. There was none of the usual clutter on the dresser and highboy that you would find in an occupied room. Moving slowly, she opened each drawer only to find them empty, and the spacious walk-in closet was almost the same. A clean set of bed linens and towels sat on an upper shelf and her leather coat was there, hung up neatly. Her shoes were on the closet floor and she slipped her feet into them._ I'll need the shoes if I have to run, yet I can sacrifice the coat. But towels? Does that mean a bathroom? _

There were three doors in the room. One, she had already discovered, led to the closet. The remaining two stood at a ninety degree angle to each other. Sighing, she picked the one on her left. _Yep, a bathroom._

The bathroom was spotlessly clean and provided with fluffy dark blue towels, matching washcloths, and plenty of soap, both solid and liquid. There was even a fresh toothbrush and toothpaste. Lou looked at herself in the mirror and groaned. Her face was bruised slightly and definitely dirty, and the small red mark from the hypospray still marred the side of her neck. She looked down at her hands; her wrists were bruised and her hands bloody, most of it from Franks but some from her own torn fingernails. She slipped her sweater off over her head and checked herself, front and back. There were bruises on her abdomen where Franks's elbows had connected when he knocked the wind out of her but nothing else._ My hair looks like Medusa's, but there's nothing I can do about it. _Sighing, she used the toilet first, realizing as she did that her trousers were properly fastened. _I remember him unzipping my pants. He may have had to zip them back up again in order to get me onto a plane without questions. _Shuddering, she thought, _I doubt he did anything while I was unconscious. He's enough of a sadist to want me awake for... _She shook her head, quickly finished her business, then squirted some liquid soap into her hands and scrubbed them clean. After that, she wet a face cloth and washed her face.

When face and hands were presentable and dry, she slipped her sweater back on and decided it was time to try door number three_. I bet it's locked, _she mused. _Though if Franks took me to see Gaat, he might just decide that there's nowhere I can go without being spotted and caught. Still, I have to try._

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the button that would open the door. To her surprise, it swished open with barely a sound. She poked her head out, looking up and down the wide, darkened corridor. There were small tables set at various intervals, each with some elegant, decorative item atop it, and heavy framed paintings adorned the walls between the doors. A long, thin Oriental rug ran down the hall from one end to another, and on either side of the runner was the hint of polished hardwood floors. No one seemed to be around, so she stepped out into the hallway, and headed to her left where there seemed to be some light. She walked slowly and carefully, padding softly on the well-cushioned runner, making barely a sound.

The light she saw came from a pair of dimmed sconces on the wall of a huge living room. The chamber was done in natural woods and leather and looked comfortable while giving an impression of wealth and power. As she crept up to the room, she saw a leather wing chair sitting with its tall back to her, and a towering floor lamp next to the chair, also shedding a dim light on the room. Her breath caught as she saw the chair was occupied. A bit of masculine arm, visible from just below the elbow down to the hand, rested on the rolled arms of the wing chair. A clear glass tumbler half full of an amber liquid was in the hand, and as she watched, the arm moved the tumbler out of sight for a moment and back down again. The man, whoever he was, smacked his lips and sighed.

_I don't know what to do here. If that's Gaat or Franks, I'm certainly in no condition to take either of them on hand-to-hand. But who else could it be? Scott and Gordon were both dressed in black... _She began to back up. _I guess I'll have to confront him, whoever he is. But first, to arm myself. Where's the kitchen?_

xxxx

"Lou? What does Lou have to do with this?" Chuck asked, suddenly getting serious.

"She was there," Shelly said. "There was this man, this terrible man, and he... he... oh God. I hope he didn't get away."

At this point, the doctor came in, followed by a nurse. "Well, it's good to see you awake, Mrs. Clarendon," she said cheerfully. She shook hands with the three Clarendons. "I'm Dr. Aulenbach, and I'm a neurologist. Since Mrs. Clarendon came in with a class three concussion, I'm going to do a few tests to see how the concussion has affected her cognitive and sensory functions, particularly her hearing and eyesight. Dr. Beers, an orthopedic surgeon, will be in later to talk to you about the knee." She turned to Chuck and Rachel. "If you wouldn't mind stepping outside? We'll call you back in when we're through."

"I'm staying," Chuck said resolutely. "I'll keep out of your way, but I'm staying." He turned to his daughter. "Rachel, would you please get me a decent cup of coffee from the cafeteria?"

Rachel looked doubtful. It was plain that she wanted to stay, too. Ever since the hospital had called, saying that her mother had been brought there, unconscious, by some anonymous people, she didn't want to leave her side. But her father gave her a look that was both pleading and commanding. "Oh, all right, Dad. I'll be back soon," she said, relenting. She walked out of the room, heading for the elevator. On the way, her shoulder collided with that of a copper-haired young man, slightly older than herself, who was walking in the opposite direction. She stopped to glare at him as she rubbed her shoulder pointedly, even though it didn't hurt very much. "Why don't you watch where you're going?" she snapped.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said politely. "I'm afraid my mind was somewhere else. Please excuse me."

Her exasperation with him dimmed a bit at his abject apology. "I suppose. But please watch where you're going in the future."

"I most certainly shall," he replied, with a twinkle in his eye that made Rachel think he found the entire situation very amusing. She sniffed once, tossed her head, letting her long, sandy brown hair swing from side to side, and stalked off.

Gordon smiled as he watched her go. _So, that's Lou's niece, huh? She's got a snarky attitude. But I'm more likely to get information from her than from anyone else. I'd better wait, though. The doctor just went in and I'm sure that there'll be more to learn once she's finished. Better go back to the waiting room and keep an eye out for... whatever._

Getting Shelly to the hospital had gone off without a hitch. He and Agent 22 had rehearsed the scenario on their way into Portland, where they figured they'd find a busier emergency room, removed a bit from the scene of the rescue. Shelly had been carefully placed in the back seat of Angela's sedan for the ride to the hospital, covered with a blanket that Angela kept in the trunk of her car. He winced as he remembered how bad the wound on the back of her head had looked. But his old friend Paul Abbot, formerly of WASP, now a medic in the Coast Guard and IR Agent 45, had arrived and examined her, saying that though she was probably concussed from the bullet graze, the actual wound was superficial. They fetched the medikit from Thunderbird One, gently put a soft cervical collar on her and transported her to Angela's car on a backboard. It was difficult, because Paul had found the badly swollen and bruised knee and said he wanted it immobilized as much as possible.

"I wish we could call in an ambulance," his father had said regretfully. "But there would be just too many questions. As it is, we're probably leaving behind lots of evidence, hopefully none of it easily traceable."

So, he and Angela drove to the emergency room at the main hospital in Portland. As they suspected, the bad weather had brought out all kinds of injuries, and the trauma center was busy. Gordon removed the cervical collar very carefully just before they got to the hospital, and the backboard had stayed behind at the scene for them to use in transporting Lou to someplace safe. As a result, Shelly basically had not a stitch of visible medical treatment on her when the car pulled up to the emergency entrance. It took a moment before Gordon, who had hopped out of the car as Angela kept it running, could find someone who would come out with a gurney to fetch Shelly.

He answered the questions of the medical staff with a lot of, "I don't know", and "We found her like this", but made sure that Shelly's handbag was plunked at her feet to give them something to identify her with. All of the accoutrements had been shoved willy-nilly into the bag by Scott, who made sure he was wearing gloves when he did so.

Once Shelly was safely in the emergency room, Angela drove off, supposedly to find a parking space, leaving Gordon behind to do what he had learned to do from years of avoiding older brothers he had just played a prank on: fade into the woodwork. He removed the garish tweed coat his father had given him for camouflage, folding it and leaving it over a chair in the ER waiting room. His ball cap and visor were with Scott, and peeling off his dark turtleneck to reveal his old gray WASP t-shirt further changed his looks. The turtleneck was thrown surreptitiously into a trash can in the cafeteria's restroom. He waited in the dining area for about an hour, getting himself something to eat and striking up a conversation with someone who noticed his t-shirt and told him her brother had served with WASP. Then he bade farewell to his conversation companion, and checked with the reception area to see if Shelly had been admitted. She had; he got the room number and headed up to her floor, taking over a chair in the waiting room and watching Shelly's door, until two people, a man about as old as his father, and a woman in her early twenties showed up and entered hesitantly. _Dad said her husband's name was Chuck, and their youngest daughter was Rachel. That must be them._

Now he was waiting for Rachel to come back. He hoped he could make another contact with her and find a way to ask about her mother. He stretched out in the less than comfortable waiting room chair, tilting his head back, extending his legs out to cross them at the ankle and entwining his fingers together to rest them on his chest. He sat like that for several minutes, feeling drowsy and bored, when a feminine, "Ahem", brought his head up quickly.

Rachel was standing there, two cups of coffee and a small plastic bag in her hands. Gordon sat up right awayrepositioning himself in his chair. She smiled sheepishly. "I wanted to apologize for my rudeness earlier." She extended one of the coffee cups. "Peace offering?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, thank you!" he sputtered, taking the cup from her hand, and set it down on the table at his right hand.

She extended her hand. "Rachel Clarendon."

He took it and shook it. "Gordon Cooper." It was an alias he had thought of long ago and had never been able to use until now. He indicated the seat to his left. "Please sit down."

Rachel sat on the edge of her seat, holding the coffee cup in one hand, while putting the bag on her lap and opening it with the other. "I've got cream and sugar in here..." she said.

"Just cream, please," he replied. She reached in and pulled out two tiny containers of half-and-half, then handed them to him. "Here's a stirrer thing, too," she added, pulling a short, paper covered straw from the bag.

He removed the paper, opened up the little containers, and stirred them into his coffee. "Aren't you having any?" he asked, pointing to the other cup.

She shook her head. "No, this is for my dad." Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she asked, "So, who do you know in here?"

"A friend," he answered glibly. "Car accident. I'm up here waiting for them to transfer him to this floor."

"Oh, no! Was he hurt badly?"

"I don't know. He was wearing his seatbelt and all. But he was unconscious when they brought him in. I think maybe the airbag didn't deploy or something." Gordon was just getting warmed up now. He took a sip of the coffee and peered into her face. "Who do you know?"

"My mom. She was brought in by some strangers a little while ago and admitted. The emergency room workers identified her by her driver's license. She was unconscious, too. A concussion they said. And her knee's really messed up. I wish I knew what happened, but she just came to a little bit ago and hasn't been able to tell us yet."

There was a moment of awkward silence before Rachel stood and said, "Well, I'd better get this coffee to my dad. I hope your friend is going to be all right."

"Ditto for your mom," Gordon replied sincerely. "And thanks for the coffee."

"You're welcome. Nice to have met you."

"Same here."

"Bye now." Rachel turned and wiggled her fingers at Gordon.

"Bye." Gordon raised a hand in farewell

Rachel walked out into the corridor and scurried over to her mother's room, opening the door enough to slide inside and closing it behind her. Gordon watched her go, noticed her hair swinging back and forth as she half-ran, and sighed. He stretched out in his chair again, commenting softly to himself, "Well, whattaya know about that?"

xxxx

Jeff took another sip of his whiskey. He was sitting in one of his favorite chairs, his stockinged feet propped up on an ottoman, just listening to the quiet. He tried to clear his mind of what had happened in those last confusing moments when he burst in on Franks, but the memories still flashed, kaleidoscope-like, in his mind, and instead of pushing them away, he decided to unravel them.

_I don't even remember hearing him firing a shot. But the evidence was there on Shelly's head, that bloody welt slicing across her scalp. Damn, but I'd forgotten how much those kinds of injuries bleed! I am so glad Agent 45 showed up. I have basic first aid training, and the boys have EMT certification, but I don't know that we would have seen that knee injury. God, I was afraid she was dead._

He adjusted himself in his chair._ Then there was Lou. She was so still and limp, and looked like she was barely breathing. Her sweater was pulled up, her slacks were open... I hate to think what Franks was doing. Gordon refuses to tell me what he saw and heard. But I'll worm it out of him yet._

Taking another sip of whiskey, he let the liquid roll down his throat. _I couldn't take her to a hospital. What was I going to say? 'This woman was shot up with some kind of drug to make her talk to the bastard who kidnapped her sister'? I'd be the first suspect. Paul couldn't give me any indication of what it was either. I just hope it passes off soon. If not, I **will **have to resort to a hospital. _He breathed deeply and let it out slowly. _Sharp man, that Paul. He was a big help in covering our tracks. He thought of places where our footprints would be that we hadn't a clue about. Says he got the ideas from reading a lot of forensic thrillers. Still, I'm sure there'll be other evidence that we couldn't erase. I'll have to get onto Parker and have him get into Lou's files the way he's gotten into ours..._

A soft clearing of the throat behind his chair drew his attention. "Whoever you are in that chair, show yourself," came a hard, low voice. He peered around the wing of his chair. "Lou!" he called, an astonished look on his face.

"Jeff!" Lou shouted, her eyes wide with fright. She dropped the knife she had been holding, one of the sharp, thin boning knives from the kitchen. It bounced a little on the thick carpet. She felt her knees give way; they seemed to turn to water, and she fell to the floor, burying her face in her hands. "Oh, God!" she cried, her shoulders shaking. "I'm safe! I'm safe!"

Jeff quickly put his drink down and got out of his chair. He knelt down before her, reaching out reflexively to gather her in his arms and hold her close. He cupped her face with one hand at the jaw, his fingertips in her curls, holding her head firmly to his shoulder, his own cheek resting on her forehead, his thumb swiping her tears across her cheek. The other hand rubbed her back comfortingly while she sobbed in relief. "Shhh, shhh. It's okay. It's okay. You're okay. You're safe," he murmured. She had one arm around his back and the other hand resting on his chest, and eventually she calmed and nestled her head in the space between his jaw and his shoulder.

He held her like that for what seemed like a long time. It felt natural, and Jeff was very much aware of how comfortable he was holding her. He didn't want to let go, but he knew he had to ask some questions and answer some, too.

"Lou?" he asked softly. "Why the knife?"

She sighed inaudibly, and drew back so she could look him in the eye. "Jeff, I had no idea where I was, or who was in that chair when I first woke up. I knew that if Franks had taken me away as he planned, it could have been him, or Gaat, or who knows who else? And I knew I was in no condition to face any of them unarmed. So I looked around until I found the kitchen and armed myself with a knife. You were the last person I expected to see."

"Okay. I understand. I understand," he replied, resting a hand on her face. He began to get to his feet, and took her hand to help her stand up. She was unsteady still and he guided her to his chair, moving his drink from the ottoman and sitting down on the foot rest.

"Where are we? Where did you come from? How did I get here?" she asked, her blue eyes puzzled.

_Blue. It seems such a strange color for her. I'll be glad when the dye fades and those big brown eyes are looking at me again. _He took a breath and huffed it out his nose. "Where are we? My place in Manhattan. Where did I come from? Well, I had Scott drop me off in Los Angeles, and I flew out to Portland from there. I was supposed to be there before you went off for your rendezvous, but the storm interfered and I was late. How did you get here? Scott flew us both here in Thunderbird One. There's a helijet pad above us," he looked up and pointed to the ceiling, "and since the clouds were low enough to cover the top floors of the tower, we were able to land pretty much undetected. We carried you down to the guest room to see if the drug that Franks used would wear off in time." He gazed at her face, and a small frown appeared between his eyebrows. "Did Franks say he planned to take you away?"

She nodded. "Yes, he did. He said that though the disk was important, I was more important to his 'employer'. I don't know why Gaat would want me or why Franks would go to such lengths to capture me. Except perhaps for revenge. He implied that he got into trouble for that fake disk." She then looked down and away and tears welled up fresh. "Jeff," she whispered. "Where is Shelly? What happened to her? Franks was going to shoot..."

Jeff smiled softly as he interrupted her. "Shhh. Calm down. Shelly is in a hospital in Portland. Gordon is there to keep an eye on her and report on how she's doing."

Her face came up with a jerk, her eyes wide with wonder, and she drew in a sharp breath. "You mean, she's alive? She's okay? Franks didn't shoot her?"

He held up a hand. "Yes, she is very much alive, but no, Lou, she's not entirely okay. And Franks _did_ shoot her. But it ended up as just a scalp wound and she was knocked unconscious. He had also done something nasty to one of her knees. From what I understand, there may be surgery in her future."

Her expression changed from one of wonder from one of disbelief. "Jeff, Franks is a crack shot. He doesn't miss. Why did he miss this time?"

Jeff gazed at her with a solemn face. "Franks's aim was thrown off because he was shot through the head as he tried to shoot your sister. He's dead, Lou. Jim Franks is dead."


	36. Resetting The Board

_Author's Note: _The penultimate chapter. Some storylines wrap up, some prepare for the sequel (uh, yeah, there's going to be one). **_Special note: _**There are occasions when the characters take matters into their own hands and do things that surprise the author. The end of this chapter is one of those times. My thanks to Hobbeth for betareading and being a sounding board.

**FrankieC: **Well, it hasn't been revealed just who shot J.F. I'm glad you found the chapters to be so thrilling. They are the reason I have been pushing so hard lately. Thanks for the good words on Shelly's fear; I'm glad to see I conveyed it well. I'm glad ol' Jim is dead, too. And as for Scott's attitude? We'll find out a little more about that in the sequel...

**Amanda Tracy: **_Groan! _I should have known_ you'd _take me seriously.

**Math Girl: **Yes, he's dead, but he's not finished causing trouble! And the Hood has plans, plans, and more plans. Gordon _is_ taking an interest in Rachel... that's one of those little things that sort of surprised me. We'll see where it goes, if anywhere.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

Lou blinked. "Dead? How?" 

Jeff glanced away for a moment then straightened up to look her in the eye. "Well, you see..."

Lou suddenly shook her head decisively and put a finger to his lips. "No. I don't want to hear about it." Jeff's puzzled expression was as good as an uttered, "Why?" and Lou hastened to explain. "If by some cruel twist I end up on the witness stand over this, I'd like to be able to say that I didn't see what happened and I know nothing about it."

Jeff sagged a bit. "Oh. I see."

"Not that I don't appreciate what you and the boys did... I'm assuming you were there at the end?"

Jeff nodded, and Lou continued, "Not that I don't appreciate it, but I know my fingerprints are all over his car. My DNA probably is there, too, and Shelly is sure to mention me." She sighed. "Of course, that will lead them back to Cindy Lou..."

"Not to Lucinda?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No, my 'friends in low places' are very thorough. My DNA and fingerprint files no longer reference to Lucinda Myles. They were able to move them to the Cindy Lou name."

Jeff gave her an uneasy look. "You know some... strange people."

"I've arrested a lot of strange people," Lou said simply. "Some of them, like Tony Cho, appreciate being treated like a human being. He was a brilliant guy, a genius, but like most geniuses, even like your Brains, he had trouble relating to people. Everyone treated him like a geek, subhuman. I treated him with respect. It went far with him." She sighed again. "This group--and it is a group, not just one person--they like a challenge. Getting into Interpol's computers, into the FBI's, they live for it. I understand that at least one of them used to work for the FBI's Witness Protection program, maybe still does. They all find this underground work to be a hell of a lot more fun and far more lucrative. And they are very picky about their clientele. No felons. But if a battered wife needs a new identity and she can pay for it... she can buy one."

"How did _you_ find out about them?" Jeff asked, genuinely curious. "I'm sure they don't advertise in the yellow pages."

Lou chuckled. "You're right, they don't. They work by word of mouth. But over a decade ago, a couple of their members decided to make some more money on the side by pirating proprietary software. I was called in on the case and was puzzled by the fact that the thefts seemed to be connected to an employee who was on maternity leave. So I planted a both a keystroke catcher in her computer at home and a virus in a copy of the latest version of the company's most promising software. Discovered that the employee wasn't involved; her computer wasn't even turned on when the bait was taken. But the virus got the attention of the group. I got an email from the FBI agent and set up an IM meeting. He or she explained what the group was all about and that they'd had no idea that the two had decided to set up shop for themselves. Whoever it was handed over their names and helped me set up a sting. Caught the two of them in the act basically."

She relaxed into the chair and put her palms up in a shrug. "But their help had a catch; I couldn't expose the whole group. I kept my word and we've helped each other over the years. They've asked me to screen various clients of theirs for criminal records, and if we couldn't identify a bit of DNA or a fingerprint during an investigation, I've asked if they might have it. They owed me a whole lot more than I did them, so they did the transition from Lucinda to Cindy Lou,_ gratis_."

"Do you think they could remove your stuff from Cindy Lou's files, too?" he asked, a speculative gleam in his eye.

"Sure. They created her. They told me they always leave a back door open," she said, nodding. "But it's probably too late."

"Not necessarily," he replied. "Two of our agents responded to my call. One of them will give the police an anonymous tip at 9 a.m."

"But Shelly..." she protested.

"Gordon and our other agent brought Shelly to the hospital, and Gordon made sure it sounded like a car wreck. The last I'd heard from him, the police hadn't talked to Shelly yet," Jeff said, a smile spreading over his face. He glanced at his watch. "And visiting hours are almost over."

"That might not stop the locals... but still..." Lou said thoughtfully. "Can you call and get an update from Gordon? And can I borrow a computer?"

"Sure," Jeff said, standing to his feet. He offered her a hand again, and she took it, rising from her chair, then suddenly she stumbled forward, almost knocking him over the footstool. He managed to brace himself and put his hands on her upper arms to steady her.

"Ooof! You're wobbly," he observed.

She put a hand to her head and glanced up at him, smiling wryly. "Yeah, got a bit light-headed there."

"When was the last time you ate?" he asked, concerned.

"Noonish," she replied.

"All right. Then you can borrow the computer after you eat. Before that, though, you'll need some transmitter solvent. I had Scott bring some along for you and it's in the kitchen. And while you're eating, I'll call Gordon."

"Sounds like a plan," Lou said with a chuckle. "Lead on, I follow."

"And here I thought you'd already found your way to the kitchen," Jeff quipped, keeping an arm around her shoulders. _To keep her balanced, _he told himself. He ducked down momentarily to retrieve the knife and his hand slipped down, stopping at the base of her spine.

"Yeah, but there's no guarantee I can find my way back there," she riposted. "This place is big!" She turned to look up and shake a finger at him, "But not as big as the Biltmore!"

He chuckled at her answer. "Come on. Let's get you that transmitter solvent," he said, his hand still resting at the small of her back.

xxxx

Scott came to the lounge from his shower. Virgil was grateful that his brother was back and, more than that, that there had been no emergency calls while the rescue team was gone.

"How did it go?" Virgil asked, turning in his seat as Scott walked in.

"It was too damn close a call," Scott muttered. He saw that the majority of the family was sitting in the lounge, watching the televid. "What's going on?"

"Alvarez has come back to Unity City," Alan said flatly and without turning, a frown on his face, his arms folded belligerently over his chest.

Scott's expression began to match his brother's as he moved in closer, finding a seat beside Eleanor on Thunderbird Three's couch. Ned Cook's serious, earnest face appeared briefly beside a wide screen showing a waving, smiling Alvarez alighting from a helijet. The newscaster began, "After over a year in seclusion and mourning, Minister of Security, Carlos Esteban Alvarez, has returned to Unity City."

The screen widened, eclipsing Cook's face, and showed Alvarez shaking hands with various official looking people. "His Excellency spent the day settling back into his Unity City residence and met briefly with various officials, including the President and Vice President." The picture changed once again to show him sitting and talking with the World Government's two highest officials. "During the past year, he has been keeping up with matters in the capital city via phone calls, daily email briefings, and through his secretary, Fernando Rafael Ramirez, who has made numerous trips back and forth between Unity City and the minister's private island home. His Excellency had this to say about his return."

The picture segued once again into a close up of a smiling Alvarez, confronted with a number of microphones and squinting in the bright camera lights, Ramirez standing in the shadows behind him. "It feels good, very good, to return to Unity City. I will, of course, deeply miss my lovely Engracia and my children, but it is time to get back to work on a full-time basis," the minister announced.

A reporter, well out of camera range, shouted, "Your Excellency, has there been any progress in the investigation of the alleged terrorist attack on your home?"

Alvarez's smile faded. "I have no comment on that matter. I am afraid you will have to ask that question of Interpol and the Unity City police."

A bodyguard now stepped forward, and the picture returned to the newsroom, a still shot of the smiling Alvarez, taken from the vid, showing in the upper right corner of the screen. Cook looked at the camera, reading from the teleprompter without looking like he was doing so. "When asked about the incident on the minister's cay, both Interpol and the local police said that they had no comment other than the investigation is still on-going. And now in other news..."

Eleanor pointed the remote at the televid and turned it off. "They've been blathering about that all day," she complained. "Why has no one else seen what a phony this man is?"

"He is very good at what he does," Kyrano said, his face pale and his voice serious. "It seems that this time he has gone beyond the use of the mask and made the changes in his visage more permanent."

"Yes, that would make sense," Tin-Tin agreed. "A mask, no matter how well made, would deteriorate over time. Or someone would remove it and he'd be exposed."

"Even so," Virgil growled. "Some of the people who worked for the real Alvarez must be in cahoots with him. There's no way that he'd be able to carry of an imposture of that magnitude for that long without help."

"You're right, Virge," Scott said thoughtfully, still frowning. "He's been planning this for a long time. That's probably why we haven't been encountering him... until now." He glanced up at Kyrano. "Or have we?"

The retainer met Scott's gaze evenly. "He has tried. I have blocked him. His power over me is diminished, but he is still a formidable adversary. Those who encounter him should not underestimate him."

"At least now we know where he is," Alan said, unfolding his arms.

Kenny, who was sitting next to him, glanced slowly looked around the room. "What are you all talking about?"

Alan gave him a weary smile. "I'll explain it on our way back down to FAB-1. You ready to get back to work?"

"Yeah, sure," Kenny said with a shrug. He rose, and Alan rose with him. The others watched them go, hearing Alan's voice begin to explain about Gaat and the current situation as they stepped up into the study.

Scott turned to Eleanor. "Any chance I can get something to eat?"

"Of course, sweetie. I saved some of our lunch for you, Gordon, and your father," she said, patting him on the arm. "By the way, where are they?"

"Dad had Gordon stay behind in Portland to keep an eye on Aunt Lou's sister. She was hurt pretty badly. He had me drop him and Aunt Lou off at the penthouse in Manhattan," Scott explained, rising from the couch.

"Well, how on earth is Gordon going to get back here? And Manhattan? Him and Lucinda? Whatever for?" Eleanor said, a small frown appearing between her eyes.

Scott sighed heavily. "I'll explain it all over lunch, Grandma." He made a general announcement to the room. "I don't know if Dad will want a formal debriefing over this or not, so if you want to hear what went on, at least from my point-of-view, come on down and I'll talk while I eat."

Eleanor rose from the sofa, and immediately felt the same vertigo as before. She dropped back down onto the couch, a surprised look on her face. "Oh my!"

"Are you all right, Grandma?" Scott asked, concerned over his grandmother's problem.

"Yes, Scott, I'm fine. Just got up too quickly, that's all," she said, dismissing it with a wave of her hand.

"Do you need any help?" her oldest grandson asked, putting out his hand. Eleanor looked at it for a moment, then sighed and grasped it. Scott braced himself to take her weight, but found he needn't have. She rose slowly from the couch under her own steam. She smiled up at Scott and released her grip.

"See, Scott. I just rose too quickly. Have to slow down a bit, that's all. Now, let's get something inside you. Come along."

Kyrano had already left the room, headed down to the kitchen to prepare Scott's lunch. Tin-Tin and Virgil followed, talking quietly together. No one noticed that they left behind Brains, who was dozing, his head propped up on one arm.

xxxx

"Whoa!" Penelope said, pulling gently on the reins of her bay mare. Riding Valley Mist was different from riding FAB-3; the former was a docile creature with an easy gait, good for beginning riders and the creature that Penelope turned to for a relaxing ride around her sheep ranch. FAB-3 was an Arabian stallion, spirited and a challenge to even the most experienced riders, the exception being Lady Penelope herself.

"I must call the stables back at Foxleyheath and see how FAB-3 is doing," Penelope said to herself. She sighed with contentment. From where she was she could see nearly the whole valley where her farm rested. The sheep were grazing in the lower part, where a wide shallow stream kept things moist and green. On top of that, it had rained the night she arrived, a steady, nourishing, badly needed rain. She woke to a world washed clean, and it felt wonderful.

So did the solitude. As much as she loved the Tracy clan, they had been everywhere. She had felt she couldn't turn around without some member of the family asking after her. Even shutting herself in the guest room hadn't worked. The long walks on the beach were nice, but when she returned to the villa, the hemmed in feeling had returned as well.

Here, she could leave the world behind for a while, and when she returned to the house, it was quiet. Yes, Parker would be there, fussing over her, but she could deal with him. And the quiet was sorely needed because she was far from peaceful in her own heart and mind. She still had to deal with the aftermath of Peter's death and come to a final decision about her status with International Rescue. Then there were Jeff and Virgil. The one she adored with all of her heart claimed he did not have feelings for her, not the way she had for him. He saw her as a daughter, or just a friend. And the other? He professed to love her, but did she feel the same about him? Could she love him the way that she had his father? Or was he more like a brother to her? She couldn't tell, not yet anyway.

Her reverie was broken by the sound of a plane flying across the valley. It was very obviously making for her landing strip. _Who could that be? Has Virgil come again? _she wondered as she turned her horse's head back down the trail. _It doesn't look like one of the Tracy's jets. Hmm. Well, I shall not find out just sitting here. _She made a "tch, tch" sound and gave her mount a prod with her booted feet, spurring the horse to an easy trot back down the way they had come.

xxxx

Lou was feeling better. She had wrinkled her nose at the foul-smelling concoction that Jeff had poured for her, but drank it down quickly, following it with a mint candy to chase away the even fouler taste. Then Jeff pulled out the leftovers from the pizza he had ordered earlier and reheated it for her. She thanked him very politely and surreptitiously pulled the black olives off of each slice. Not surreptitiously enough, though, because Jeff noticed. He shook his head. _How could I forget? Lou doesn't like olives on pizza. _He laughed silently at himself. _Tracy, it's been twenty years since you've had pizza with this woman. How could you expect to **remember**?_

While she was eating, he had called Gordon on the kitchen vidphone.

"Hi, Dad," Gordon said cheerfully. "They've chased us out of the hospital, and I'm at the hotel now. I made friendly contact with Rachel earlier and asked after Shelly, and when visiting hours were over, finagled it so I walked out with her and her dad. As we walked out, she told me what was happening with her mom."

"So, what's the verdict?" Jeff asked, glancing over at Lou, who was watching him.

"Verdict: scalp wound that's been glued shut, class three concussion without any major complications, and an appointment for knee surgery at seven in the morning," was the reply. "Rachel did say that her mom seemed a bit confused and kept asking for Lou. The neurologist wasn't concerned about the confusion; said it was common with this kind of concussion."

"Hmm. Any signs of the police?"

"Not a one," Gordon replied with a grin. "Her father was giving me the evil eye though."

Jeff glanced over at Lou as she snorted a laugh. "That's Chuck all right," she commented, rolling her eyes.

"Okay, Gordon. Get some sleep. I'll call you in the morning with new instructions."

"Right, Dad. Talk to you tomorrow. Bye!"

The call ended, and Jeff turned to Lou as he heard her sigh. "Jeff, I have to see her."

He pulled a chair up and sat on next to her, angling his chair so he could see her easily. "Why? You know she's going to be all right."

"Yes, I realize that... up here." She tapped her forehead. "But for me to really understand it down here," she spread her hand over her chest, "I have to be there, to talk to her. More than that, _she_ needs to know that _I'm_ okay. As far as she's concerned, Franks left her for dead and has hauled me off somewhere, never to be heard from again."

Jeff sat back, nodding. "I see." He laced his fingers together and put his hands on the table, looking down at them instead of meeting her gaze. "I was hoping to get you to come out to the island with me."

Lou smiled, and put her hand on his. He glanced over at her and saw her smile. "I appreciate the offer, Jeff. And I think that this time, I'll take you up on it. But not until I see Shelly, okay?"

He drew his hands apart and grasped hers with the closer one. "Okay. I'll order a company plane to be prepared for us and take you to Portland in the morning."

"Thank you," she said simply. Then she cocked her head and her smile became impish. "You do realize that I'll need to do something with my cats before I leave the States."

This piece of news seemed to surprise him, making him sit up straighter. "Oh. Yeah," he said, a little puzzled frown showing up between his silvered eyebrows. "Uh, what exactly would you do with them?"

"Well," she began, glancing up at the ceiling, "I don't have a place to board them in Gardiner. And the vets are too new; I don't know them well enough to trust them with my babies." She looked thoughtful and brought her eyes back down to gaze at him, putting an elbow on the table and gesturing with that hand. "I suppose, since we're flying, that I could take them down to Asheville and leave them with Jadzia. She'd take them in a heartbeat. Orrrrr..." She broke off her narrative to give him time for thought.

Jeff gazed at her as with a long-suffering expression. "I may regret asking this, but... or what?"

Lou smiled brightly and propped her chin up on her hand. "Or... we could take them with us!" She reached out to poke him in the arm. "You did mention it once."

He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and sighed. "Yeah, I know. But... let me sleep on that, okay?"

"Oh-kay!" she said, her eyes twinkling with mirth. Wiping her hands on a napkin, she said, "Now where's that computer?"

xxxx

"Excellency?"

"Yes, Fernando? What is it?" Alvarez swiveled around to face Ramirez. He sat in the leather chair behind the desk in the Unity City house's study. _It is as well appointed as the one on the cay, but I will miss the view of the sea._

The secretary looked decidedly uncomfortable. He was there late, sorting through the correspondence that had piled up while he had been on the island. He longed for his own bed, in his own apartment and a weekend away from his employer's presence. "I have a message from our people in Geneva."

"And?"

"The website was attacked. The operating system has been compromised and the data has been corrupted."

"What?" Alvarez came to his feet at this news. "When? How?"

"Yesterday afternoon. The email scanner picked up a correspondence sent to Interpol regarding the creator of the program, Anthony Cho. It had an attachment that cleared the anti-virus software. When they opened it up, it released an infected termite. The virus worked its way into the system, rewriting whole sections of code, and disabling the email scanner. The termite took out ninety percent of the data."

"Diablo!" Alvarez shouted. He slammed a hand down on the desk. "Who is responsible for this?"

"According to our people in Geneva, they were unable to trace the sender before the system shut down. But someone does remember the recipient. It was sent to the Interpol email box of Lucinda Myles."

The minister threw himself into his chair, sending it rolling back. "The Myles woman again!" He glanced up at Ramirez. "Has Franks contacted you?"

"Not today," the secretary responded. "But our mole at Interpol confirmed that Myles's box had been deactivated."

"So, the email would bounce back to the sender," Alvarez said thoughtfully.

"Yes, it would. Perhaps it is someone who does not know that Myles is retired," Ramirez offered.

"Perhaps. But given that the disk Franks originally retrieved from her had a termite attached, I would suspect the woman herself," his employer surmised. He reached out to drum his fingers on the teakwood desk, then glanced up at Ramirez again. "You must try to reach Franks. He has twenty-four hours to capture the Myles woman. And he is to bring her to the cay, not to Unity City. When I know she is on her way there, I shall make arrangements for her disposition elsewhere. International Rescue knows where to find me. I do not wish them to know where to find her."

"Very good, Excellency," Ramirez said, trying hard to keep the weariness from his voice. "I shall attend to it at once."

"Do that, Fernando. Then go home," Alvarez said. "You may report in the morning."

"Yes, your Excellency." Again, Ramirez bowed, not knowing quite why, and left the office.

Alvarez sat in quiet reflection for a few moments more. _We are at a stalemate, Tracy and I. He knows who I truly am just as I know who he is in regards to International Rescue. And each of us realizes that the other knows. _He touched his face. _I cannot make the move I originally planned, from a position of strength, hiding behind this identity. But he cannot move against me either. I have two options to get what I want from him. One is to bring the Myles woman under my thumb. She has access to him and must mean something, even if it is only friendship. The other will take longer, but I shall sow the seeds of it tomorrow. Then I shall begin to put the pieces in place so I may reach my ultimate goal._

xxxx

"I don't care what it costs," Lou typed. "I will have the money sent to you as soon as you say you will do it."

Jeff paced nearby, sipping a glass of wine, as Lou argued online with her contact. The person on the other end, known only as "Shadow Rider", was both puzzled and concerned that Lou wanted her fingerprints and DNA files removed from Cindy Lou's files and put back on Lucinda's.

"Tell me why you want it done," Shadow Rider replied.

"I told you. I'm in a bit of a fix and I don't want my fingerprints traced back to Cindy Lou," Lou typed. "The other people involved know me as Lucinda and if the evidence that I'm sure was left behind leads them back to my Lucinda identity, that's fine. I want Cindy Lou to be a refuge that I can turn to while the whole thing is cleared up."

"Tell me the truth, Luci," was the next line of words typed. "Did you commit a crime?"

"No. I did not. I was the victim of one. Me and someone else I know. But the perp is dead, and I wasn't in any condition to remove all the evidence that I was there. Besides, the other person will probably tell the local cops about me."

"Did you kill this perp?"

"No, I did not. Nor did the other victim."

"Do you know who did?"

Lou glanced over at Jeff, who was turned away at that moment, then typed, "No. I was unconscious when it happened."

"Then how do you know the perp is dead?"

"A third party told me."

There was a moment's lull in the conversation, then, "Did this third party kill the perp?"

Lou sighed. "I don't know. But he pulled me and the other victim, who the perp _was_ about to shoot, out of the vicinity."

There was another, longer pause, then Lou typed, "If it helps any, the perp was one of the people who attacked me in NC. And he had plans to haul me out of the country to meet his boss, a big-time criminal." She sent that then stopped, fingers poised over the keyboard, then typed, more slowly, "He also groped me and drugged me. The drug is why I don't know who killed him." The sentence hung there for a moment. She swallowed, then hit "enter".

"How did he grope you?" came an angry voice from behind her. She turned, startled, to see Jeff peering over her shoulder. He met her gaze, then put a hand on her shoulder, his voice moderating. "I'm sorry, Lou. I shouldn't have been reading..."

She turned back to the screen and keyboard. "No, you shouldn't have. But I'm surprised you didn't guess what he was doing. After all, Gordon had the receiver with him, and Scott was tuned in as well. If you rode with one of them, you would have heard something."

"I heard the fight. I heard him tell Shelly that you were there. And I heard him say he had to frisk you. But after that, Scott and I were headed for the house..."

"How big a crook?" The appearance of another line stopped grabbed Lou's attention, and Jeff backed away, giving her shoulder a squeeze as he did.

Lou thought for a moment then replied, "Gaat."

There was a longer pause this time and she sat back, folding her arms, staring at the screen. Finally, a single word came up. "Okay."

Lou sighed with relief and set about making payment arrangements.

xxxx

Penelope brought her mount back into the barn, handing her over to Carrie Sullivan, who was brushing down one of the other horses. "Do you know whose plane landed at the airstrip?" she asked.

Carrie, a pretty brunette whose her long hair was pulled back in a sensible French braid, shook her head. "No, Milady. Mick went out to greet the plane but I didn't see who he brought back."

"Well, I guess I had best go see who my unexpected guest is," Penelope said, giving Carrie a half-hearted smile. "Please see that Val gets a special treat. She was an angel today."

"Yes, Milady," Carrie answered as she lead the mare back to her stall.

Penelope stripped off her riding gloves and removed her helmet, smoothing back the tendrils of golden hair that had escaped the French twist she had done that morning. She opened the door herself and strode inside. Parker, hearing her boots on the flagstone entryway, hurried to greet her.

"Good h'afte'noon, Milady. Ye 'ave h'a guest, Milady. Ay 'ave shown 'im t' th' drawing room," he said as he took the gloves and hat.

He was about to say more, when she interrupted. "Very good, Parker. Please see to it that a spot of tea is prepared," she replied. "I shall be in the drawing room, greeting my guest." She didn't wait for a reply from him, but walked away, curious to see who it was that was calling.

"Yus, Milady," Parker said. He shook his head. "Ay don' think milady will be too 'appy when she sees who's come t' call."

"Hello," Penelope said to the masculine figure that sat with his back to her. She took in the short brown hair, and noticed the wide shoulders beneath the khaki colored jacket. He reminded her of someone, but right then she couldn't place just who. _At least it's not someone from the Tracy family. _"It really is much more polite to phone ahead before one comes to call."

"Ah, but if one phones before coming to call," said the amused, British tones, "one may find oneself coming to an empty house." He rose and turned, smiling at her. "I thought I might find you here, Lady Penelope."

Her eyes widened with surprise and consternation, and she couldn't help but put a hand to her mouth as she gasped, "Mr. Southern!"

xxxx

"So, how are things at home?" Lou said as Jeff came back from calling the island. She was sitting in his favorite chair again, sipping at a glass of wine and looking totally exhausted.

"Things are okay. Scott got home in one piece and has brought everyone else up to speed," he said. He didn't tell her about the few terse words he exchanged with his mother. "A guest room will be ready for you when we get there. I also took a moment to call in a request for one of the corporate jets. If we leave early enough, we should be able to get there just as she's coming out of surgery." He paused and sat down on the ottoman again, facing her. "Are you sure you want to go see her as you are? No quick change of hair color to make you look more like yourself?"

She smiled at him and leaned forward. "It would take more than just hair color to make me look like the old Lucinda and you know it. My sister saw me like this, and she needs to see me just as I am. Besides, if any hairs got left behind, the police will be able to detect that they're colored and permed anyway. I can convince Shelly not to give away the blue eyes or the beauty mark though. Rachel will cooperate, too, I'm sure. I'll need her help to get Chuck away from Shelly long enough for me to talk to her privately. Chuck wouldn't be so... accommodating, I'm afraid."

He reached out to put a hand on her knee. "You look beat. How about getting some sleep?"

"That's a good idea," Lou assented. She drained her wine glass. "Uh, Jeff? Would there happen to be any, uh, clothes I could borrow to sleep in?"

He smacked his forehead. "I knew I was missing something!" He eyed her speculatively. "I don't think you'd fit into any of Tin-Tin's things. Or Mother's for that matter. Not that anyone keeps a lot of clothes around here anyway."

"When I visited the island, I wore... let's see... I wore a pair of Scott's old sweatpants, and one of Gordon's t-shirts and his paisley dressing gown," she said with a grin. "Do you think we could round those up again?"

Jeff grinned back. "I think we could. Be right back."

He walked off, and she peeked around the edge of the chair to watch him stride down the corridor, admiring his confident gait. She sat back as he disappeared into one of the rooms.

_The whole Tracy family has meant a lot to me over the years, mostly because of Lucille and my deep friendship with her. And Jeff's been important because of that connection, as well as the friendship that we two shared, even as distant as it became after Lucille's death. But now... things have changed. Now he's become important on a whole different level. There's a deeper connection there than before. He's told me, and shown me by his actions how much I've come to mean to him, even in such a short time. The question is: do I want to follow where this all seems to be leading and risk getting hurt, or worse, hurting him? Or do I want things to stay as they are, and we two remain good friends?_

"Lou?" She started, and looked up to see him standing over her, a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt over his arm. "I couldn't find the paisley dressing gown," he joked. "And the t-shirt is one of mine. I hope that's okay."

She smiled, and took the clothes from him. "It's okay. I can do without the paisley anyway."

"You looked like you were deep in thought there," he commented as she got up from the chair.

"I was," she admitted, but said no more.

He walked her down to the guest room she had awakened in. "Well, goodnight, Lou," he said as he turned to go.

"Goodnight, Jeff." She put her hand on the button to open the door, when suddenly he turned back, cupped her face in both hands, and kissed her. It wasn't a long kiss, but it was powerful, and it shook her to the core.

He stepped back a bit, watching her, waiting for her reaction, his face half full of hope and half full of dread. She gazed back at him for a second, still stunned, then her face relaxed into a soft smile. She reached up _It's not far to go_, put her arms around his neck _It's not much of a stretch_, and returned the kiss_ His lips are right **there**_. He reacted by putting one hand in her hair _These curls were meant for my fingers_, one arm around her waist _It fits around her just right_, and finishing what she had started.

It seemed a long time before they came up for air, but when they did, they both knew that everything between them had changed.

She reached out, pushed the button, and the door obediently swished open. "Goodnight, Jeff," she reiterated, pulling away little by little, loath to leave him, but knowing that if she didn't, something might follow that neither of them was ready for.

"Goodnight, Lou," he said again, loath to let her go, but acknowledging that the change between them had to have time to settle in before things went any farther.

She gave him a last, almost shy glance, stepped into the room, then the door shut decisively. He turned and crossed the hall, to where his own room was. Once inside, he flopped down on the bed, put his hands behind his head, and blew out a long, "Whew!"

Once the door was closed, she leaned her back up against it and slid abruptly down to rest on the carpet, the clothes bunched up between her belly and her thighs. She sighed an audible, "Ohhhh." Shaking her head slightly, she murmured, "Follow the leader."


	37. Epilogue: Reunion

_Author's Note: _An epilogue, a reunion, and the set-up for the sequel, entitled _Overtures_. My deepest thanks to Hobbeth for betareading and being a sounding board. And major thanks to all that took the time to review this monster.

**janet: **Thanks for the good words about the story and the last formal chapter. I hope you stay tuned for the next bit in this story arc.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. **This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. **I may be reached at my email of record. _Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent. _

Enjoy.

Tikatu

* * *

"They should be coming from recovery now," Gordon said, looking at his watch. He and Lou were seated in the waiting room on Shelly's floor, trying to stay out of sight. Lou had a kerchief covering her red curls and a pair of slightly tinted sunglasses that hid the color of her eyes effectively. Gordon was now wearing an off-white cable knit sweater with fresh jeans and a Greek style fisherman's cap. Jeff and Lou had gotten to Portland early enough for the three of them to find a store open so Lou could purchase a new outfit, while Jeff had grabbed some of Gordon's clothes from the penthouse to bring to him. The hat was new; Gordon had seen it in the store and grinned. "I've always wanted one of these." 

"I hope we can get in and out quickly," Lou said as she sat, nervously bouncing a knee up and down.

Gordon got up and peered out into the hallway. "I think they're coming... yeah, they're wheeling her back to her room."

"Good," was all that Lou said.

"Rachel's coming with Chuck. I'll go do my thing," Gordon explained, then slipped from the room.

"Hey, Rachel!" Lou heard him call, then there was just a murmuring as they spoke together. They came closer to the waiting room and Lou tried to quell her rising impatience. Finally, she heard Gordon say, "There's someone I'd like you to meet," as he guided Rachel into the waiting area.

Lou stood and faced her niece, who greeted her with an outstretched hand and a curious, "Hello."

Slipping off her kerchief and removing her glasses, Lou said, "Hello, Rachel. How's your mom?"

Rachel's face went from friendly to suspicious. She peered at this stranger, looking at her closely, then backed up a bit. "Do I know you?"

"Yes, Rachel," Lou sighed. "It's me, your Aunt Lou. The one who babysat you for four days when you were eight. You had Fifth's disease and had to be quarantined from the rest of the kids."

The young woman's eyes went wide. "Oh my God! Lou? It is really you?" She rounded on Gordon, "What the hell is this all about?"

Gordon raised his hands to waist level, palms out in a calming gesture. "It's okay, Rachel, it's okay."

"How do_ you _know her?" Rachel asked bluntly, not pleased at all at this turn of events.

"It's not so much a matter of how he knows me as much as it is how I know him," Lou replied before Gordon could answer. "I was a very good friend of his late mother and knew him when he was just a little bologna loaf in the hospital."

Gordon looked affronted. "I was never a bologna loaf!"

"Yes, you were. You and Alan both," Lou retorted. She turned to Rachel. "I changed my hair and eye color so I could go underground after the attack in Asheville. That's the reason your Mom has had to contact me via email. I didn't want anyone knowing what I looked like."

"But why are you here, Aunt Lou?" Rachel asked, now bewildered. "How did you hear about Mom's accident?"

Lou sighed again. "Hon, what has your mother said about what happened to her yesterday?"

"She hasn't said much that didn't sound all confused," the young woman said, her face wrinkling in a concerned expression. "She said something about a terrible man and wanted to know where you were."

The older woman exchanged glances with the younger man. He shrugged. "Sit down, Rachel," Lou said. "I have to make this quick before your father comes looking for you. Yesterday, a really nasty man that I know kidnapped your mother and made her call me. He said he'd kill her if I didn't bring him something he wanted. I called some friends--Gordon here is one of them--and they helped me get from where I was to Portland in time to meet with this man. He took me to your mother, then he drugged me and was going to take me away. But before he left, he was going to kill her."

"No!" Rachel gasped. "Then... then what happened? The people who brought her in said it was a car accident!"

"Rachel, I was one of those who brought her here," Gordon said gently. "I said what I did to protect her and to protect myself. The wound your mother got on the back of her head was from the bullet he fired."

"Where is this man now?" Rachel asked, her voice full of fear. "He... He could be looking for her right now! I've got to go protect..."

"Rachel!" Lou said sharply, grabbing the young woman's arm as she tried to rise. "He's not looking for her. He's not doing anything any more. He's dead."

Wide-eyed, Rachel sat down with a thump. "Dead? How? Who killed him?"

"I don't know who killed him," Lou said bluntly. "I just know that someone did." She softened her voice. "I need to see your mother. I'm sure she remembers just about everything that happened but she doesn't know what's happened to me. I need to see her and reassure her that I'm all right. Will you help me by getting your father out of the room?"

"I suppose I can. But... about this dead man. Do the police know? Are they going to come and ask her questions?"

"As far as I know, the police don't realize this has happened," Gordon explained. "I don't even know that anyone has reported your mother's condition as a car accident yet. Everyone would have assumed that I did it. But someone _is_ going to report it very soon, and probably the police will be here sometime this afternoon to question your mom."

"Rachel, please. Help me out here," Lou asked wearily. "I'd like to see for myself that your mom's okay, too. But with your dad in the room... you know what kind of reception I'd get. And there would be too many questions that I can't answer."

"Okay. I'll see what I can do," Rachel said. She reached out to touch the beauty mark. "Wow. You really do look different."

"You think I_ look _different? You should_ hear _me. I've usually got a southern drawl going," Lou said with a smile.

"I'll try to get Dad out of the room. It won't be for long, though," Rachel said as she rose.

"I know. That's one thing I like about your dad; he really loves your mom," Lou replied. "Oh, and Rachel?"

"Yes, Aunt Lou?" the young woman asked, turning just as she was about to go out the door.

"Don't tell anyone I've been here. You can discuss it with your mom in private, but no one else, please?"

"I'll try," Rachel replied. Then she stepped through the door and was gone.

Gordon leaned, hands in his pockets, against the wall just inside the doorway so he could keep an eye on Shelly's door. "She's inside." He glanced over at Lou, who was putting the kerchief over her hair again. "Don't you like your brother-in-law?"

"Not particularly," she replied, tucking the curls up into the covering, her voice very matter-of-fact. "But he does love my sister deeply. That, and he's very protective of her. Both of those go a long way with me. If he ever mistreated her, though, I'd be on his case in a cold minute. And when I was through with him, they'd need a bucket to pick up the pieces."

Gordon's eyes widened for a moment as the last comment sank in. Then he went back to watching the door. "The door's opening. Yeah, he's coming out. Rachel's with him."

Lou counted silently to five, then got up and walked casually out into the hall. Gordon watched as she looked both ways before entering the room, then quickly opened the door and darted inside.

The room was a private one, for which Lou was grateful. She pulled off her kerchief and glasses as she approached the bed where Shelly lay, pale and sleepy, her leg propped up on pillows. "Shelly?"

Her sister's head turned toward the sound, then her eyes grew wide and she called, "Oh my God! Lou! Oh, thank God! Lou!" She reached out with both arms, ignoring the IV, pleading with her hands for her sister to come closer.

"Shhh," Lou cautioned, going to her and putting down the side of the bed so she could reach her sister and the outstretched arms. "Shhh. I'm here."

They embraced awkwardly, and Shelly didn't want to let go. "Oh, Lou! I was so worried. I didn't know what had happened to you! I thought for certain he had taken you somewhere and..." She choked as a first sob came and she held Lou even tighter.

"Shh, shh, calm down, Shell, calm down. I'm here; he didn't take me away. I'm here, I'm fine. You're the one I was worried about," Lou said soothingly, pulling away gently. She stroked her sister's wet face. "He didn't hurt me the way he did you. I thought you were dead! I saw him about to shoot you before I passed out." Tears welled up in her eyes and she sniffed as they coursed down her cheeks. "I was so relieved to hear that you were alive."

"_I _thought I was dead," Shelly said between sobs. "And I thought I'd never see you again! I was so afraid. Where is he? How did you get away?"

Lou smiled a bit. "I'll tell you what I know, but quickly. There's not much time until Chuck comes back and I don't want to meet up with him right now, okay?"

She handed her sister a tissue or two and waited a moment for Shelly to blow her nose and compose herself, while she wiped her own eyes and face dry. Then she plunged in. "How did I get away? Well, contrary to what Franks assumed, I _did _bring backup. They moved in, and just in the nick of time, too. They took you to the hospital, claiming you were in a car accident to avoid questions, and took me... away to a safe place where I could sleep off the drug Franks gave me."

"Franks? Where is he? Did he get away? Is he going to come..."

Lou reached over and put two fingers on her sister's lips. Shelly quieted, and Lou took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "As for Franks himself... no, he didn't get away. And he's not going to come after us or anyone else again. He's... dead."

"Dead?" Shelly echoed, her eyes growing wide again. "How? Who?"

"Yes, dead. How? I was told he was shot through the head as he tried to shoot you. As for who?" Lou shook her head. "I don't know and I'm not asking. And neither are you. Understand?"

Nodding, Shelly let out a shuddery breath. Lou waited for a second, then continued. "Now listen to me closely. The people who acted as my backup are about..." she glanced at her watch, "...have already given the police an anonymous tip on where to find Franks. Once the police get rolling on their investigation, they'll be in here to talk to you. If you prefer, you can tell your part of the story to Chuck and Rachel. Rachel has already heard from me about it, and she will believe you. So if you'd rather talk to the police on your own terms, that's the way to go."

She squeezed her sister's hand. "I'm sure they'll find traces that I've been there; hairs, fingerprints, what have you. You can tell them what happened up to the point where you were shot. But you must not tell them what I've just told you about my backup, or that I've been here. And please, don't tell them about how I look right now. If I left behind hair, that's okay; they'll be able to determine for themselves that it's been dyed and permed. But no eye color or beauty mark, okay? And no telling them the name I'm using now either. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lou. I do," Shelly sighed. "But they'll be looking for you once I talk to them."

Lou nodded. "I know. They'll probably think that _I_ shot him, that's why I don't want them to find me easily, if at all. So I'm going to stay with some friends for a while. But don't worry; they'll take_ very _good care of me. You can call me on the satellite phone since you have the number, and the email address is the same. Put on a show for the police, but please don't worry."

There was a series of soft taps at the door, and Lou shot a glance at it. "I've got to go; Chuck and Rachel are coming back." She reached over to hug her sister, and kissed her on the forehead. "I love you, sis. Always remember that."

Shelly's eyes got moist again as she returned Lou's embrace. "I will. And I love you, too."

The door opened slightly, and Gordon motioned for her to hurry. Lou slid the kerchief quickly over her head, and put the glasses on as she walked to the door. Then she slipped out without looking back.

They walked back to the waiting area to watch as Rachel and Chuck approached the door to Shelly's room. They were arguing softly, and Rachel glanced quickly over toward Gordon, who gave her a thumbs up. She nodded to him, and then followed her father inside.

"Did things go well?" Gordon asked as they left the waiting room, heading for the elevator

"As well as could be expected," Lou said. "She knows that I'm okay, and I know that she is. And she knows what not to say to the police."

The elevator car came, half filled with people, and they rode down silently together. As they left the confines of the hospital and headed for the parking garage, Lou asked, "So, what are you going to do now?"

"Dad's given me permission to stay on for a day or so and visit with my friend, Paul, up in 'Bah Hah-bah' as the natives put it. Then I'm to fly the JT-1 home."

Lou chuckled at the Down East accent that Gordon assayed. "I'll see you on the island in a couple of days then," she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

"Right. See you there, Aunt Lou," Gordon agreed, returning the salute.

He watched as the sleek sports car pulled up, and he opened the passenger side door for her. She slid inside, removing her kerchief as she did. "See you later, Gordon," the driver said, his smile flashing.

"See you soon, Dad," was the reply as he closed the door and turned to go in search of his own rental car.

"So, did everything go well? Are you satisfied?" Jeff asked, glancing over at her before turning out of the hospital parking area and heading to the jetport.

"Yes, to both questions," Lou replied, giving him a weary smile. "Where to now?"

"Now? A quick stop in Gardiner, New York," Jeff replied with a grin. "And after that... home."

xxxx

"Around here," the sheriff's officer called. "The back door is open."

The realtor who was in charge of the house frowned. "The key isn't missing. How could anyone get in?"

Detective Janice Kaplan followed the sheriff's officer through the kitchen and stopped at the very edge of the doorway into the living room. A small, battery operated lamp was burning near one wall, and a police scanner, also battery operated, sat beside it. Both were sitting on top of a stainless steel suitcase. A jacket lay neatly folded on the floor next to the case. There was a bloodstain in the far corner, and sitting next to it, a pair of handcuffs. But Kaplan's main interest was in the body, which lay splayed out on the floor, limbs akimbo and a look of intense surprise frozen on its face. "Caucasian male, late thirties, over six foot tall, black hair, light blue eyes...," she recited as she began to enter details into her PDA. An automatic pistol lay on the floor where it had obviously fallen from the corpse's hand

"Oh my dear God!" came a cry from behind her. She whirled to find that the realtor had followed her into the house and was now staring over her shoulder, face paper white, at the corpse. She made an angry gesture to the officer behind her. "Get him the hell out of here!"

The name tag on the officer who had preceded her read, "L. Bauer", and he shook his blond head in disgust. "I don't know who scragged this poor bastard, but whoever it was must have been mighty pissed at him."

"What makes you say that, Officer?" she asked casually as she continued to record the details of her first impressions.

"Look at him, Detective! The whole top of his head was blown off!"

"Yeah. Sure." _As if that gives us any clue as to the state of mind of the murderer, _she thought with disdain. "Okay, let's go. Time to let the forensics gurus in here." She moved outside into the sunny day, and returned to her car, sitting in the driver's seat and sipping at the coffee she had brought with her. It looked to be another long day.


End file.
